Lirael's Last Peal
by lordfolken
Summary: Nick has a new life and status in the Old Kingdom, and Sam is still the Maker Prince. A new journey is about to take place, but how much have things changed since the days of the Destroyer?
1. Prologue: Somnos

Note:

For all my readers, and reviewers, I cannot thank you enough. I promise this will the last time I update earlier chapters. When I had first written and put up, what I called 'drafts', I was disappointed in the format in which I was posting the chapters. Truthfully, I had a very different result in mind, and I finally have gotten around to make it into what it should have looked like in the beginning. The first chapter had confused a lot of people, and I hope now this chapter and the ones coming after (I have re- written and re-edited them all) will make a lot more sense – especially the time period lapse between the Prologue and the first chapter.

So, for all those who have reviewed with such enthusiasm and have perhaps not forgotten me (grins), I thank you once again, and hope you'll re-read the chapters as they may provide a refresher and other surprises! Thank you all!

Sincerely,

Lordfolken

**Lirael's** **Last Peal – Act I **

**'CARMINA'S KEY LOCKET'**

* * *

_**"Grief never had ears, nor a heart. It could only rend them apart…"**_

_Lord Mathew, Prisoners of Saibath_

**Prologue: Somnos **

**From the archives of Sanaer, Royal Recorder:**

**… and with all such evidence, the following excerpt was taken from the Praemium Sancta Apocrypha – reputedly scribed by the one _Desertus Lirael Alta-meister _herself. The following excerpt has been reproduced with explicit consent of His Royal Highness, Touchstone I, King of Bellisaere, and Her Royal Majesty, the esteemed Abhorsen Sabriel: **

19th day of Hazel May, 180th day of the Fallen One's End,

_There is a recurring dream that I always have … a tangled one, repeated over … over and over again. There is but a road in front of me, twisted and twisted, its edges overlapping each other endlessly at that far distance …_

_And at it's far away end …_

_Nothing … but an empty gaze, stares impassively back._

_A deep void … to fall into and keep falling._

_Or perhaps to leap into … if one cannot be expected to fall into it._

_There is no one else in my dream, just … myself … and a suffocating cold and darkness, enveloping every edge, shrouding any light to seek a direction from… _

_After all, light was not meant to shine there. _

_Yet …_

_Yet… _

_It feels so … so welcome… _

_So utterly comforting…_

_A refuge then; that is what it truly represents._

_A dark refuge, a shadowed corner to hide from things that cannot be understood, to put away things unwanted … items of shame, human artifacts of terrible guilt. _

_A corner to hide in, the corner to blanket and a corner to sweep away all misery…_

_Misery?_

_No. _

_Misery is too soft a word._

_HATE._

_Hate would be closer._

_So of course, you would seek the next question – what was it for - what for do I hold such hate?_

_That damned inquisitive nature of yours, that same nauseous forlorn expression on your face if I should ever refuse you. That forsaken look…_

_I…_

_I detest, loathe … LOATHE that look!_

_That filthy, filthy look … do_ _not direct it towards me!_

_**DO NOT LOOK AT ME WITH THOSE EYES!**_

_There is not a memory to stir in me! No pity, nor love to stir in the depths of my soul!_

_It is naught … but just dust._

_Dust and ashes!_

_Hah!_

_Poetry in the end … when nothing else matters._ _However, if poetry is what is needed to be rid of you, if them rhythmic cadences are required for you to die within me … then I shall become a poet … yes … a poet of that pale faced wretch. _

_Did I hear a whine? Yes … you have heard it right, so smother those disgusting snuffles, you have heard it correctly._

_I want you dead within me…_

_Vanish away ... disappear to whatever shadows you have slunk off to … do not turn around … begone! Leave this doll behind, leave its tattered strings behind! You have torn it asunder, so why look back now?!_

_Don't look back … you do not possess any claim to do so! None!_

_You have left me … you are dead…_

_Dead?_ _No … wrong, you cannot be dead. How can you be? Death is only for mortals, is it not? _

'_Death is the end of all', 'Death is just a beginning' … I will laugh in the faces of those hypocrites, those deceivers who would claim death is merely a beginning, laugh at those sinners who claim Death is a rest!_

_Even so were they true …there shouldn't be any new beginning for one such as you. I want to see you more than just dead! I do not even want you to exist! _

_YOUR Filthy love! A plague! A thousand Plagues!_

_Can you call the moths' eternal dance with the flame a filthy love? For those moths will shrivel at the end, and the flame will burn it to gray ashes, to rest forgotten at the flame's pit. Yet, they will still flare their dull wings, beat their wings to court that beautiful flame, to woo their destroyer … _

_Filthy Love?_ _Then, a Love that destroys, a Love that soils…_

_A Love that I craved so much … a love, that in the silence of the night I still beg for … and reach out my palms for…_

_As if I can hold it, cradle it against me… _

_Pathetic, pitiful … so pathetic the plight of the moth, so pitiful the end of doll with broken strings…_

_Disgusting._

_No more, none less than you at least, miserable cur! I want to see your shiny coat rot and your bones disintegrate away in the gray river, and know that you will never come back to haunt me again! Ever again! Never again!_

_For then, perhaps, I will feel your filthy love is no more. I will know that you do not exist anymore – never to plague my thoughts, never to make me cry dry tears at the thought of your Love._

_Love! Your **Love**…_

_That Love…_

_Strength that it lent me once is now just a mockery, a shrill joke. **Your** **Love!**_

_That pain you left in me … when you slunk away and never returned … it is an ache that refuses to goes away, no matter how many times I have tried to erase it, tried to smother it by destroying all that is left of you!_

**_Your_** **_Love … ha!_**

_Is this what you wanted me to feel?! Is this what you wanted me to become?! Is this what you wanted me to learn?!_

_That your lone love is something that I cannot ever have, but which I must merely remember – and must learn to live without … as a broken doll that I am?!_

_If so, then you are a fool! A fool that doesn't deserve a name and much less a collar! Certainly not as wise as claimed, but a fool to the Charter made bones. A mongrel._

_An alley mongrel!_

_A mongrel Bitch! The bitch that I never called you!_

_**BITCH! BITCH! Alley BITCH!**_

_Bitch…bitch…_

_Yes…_

_Bitch … a mongrel bitch … that's right isn't it?_

_That's it then…!_

_After all, flames and moths are both the same. The fire always wanes and dies, until not even its dying embers will light the ashes of its lovers. So, it will flirt. Flirt with the ones with similar passions, with the ones that are doomed to the same fate, cursed with the same likeness… _

_Hah!_

_As much as it befits you, a mongrel bitch is the apt name for one so wretched as me! For one who cannot be any more Daughter than can she be Aunt or Sister. And of course, a Bitch … for one who's so pathetic that she would catch every tear that fell and think of a warm tongue that could once lap them away. The hot breath that could never dry the wetness from these cheeks…_

_Your_ _Love? Disgusting…! DESPICABLE! How could I desire something such …something so despicable?! _

_**A MOTH! A MOTH!**_

_**A Charter DAMNED FIRE!**_

_I am screaming! Yes, that soft-spoken wretch is trying out her miserable whisper of a voice! I try to scream when I am lost in the dark of the night, crying into my bed. I try to scream as the sheets reach out to tangle me, choke me, hold me in their suffocating embrace … holding me … smothering me…_

_But, I can't! I can't scream out! Did you know that?_

**_No cursed words come out!_** _I can't scream myself hoarse; I just cannot scream!_

_But, oh the desire to do so! _

_I want to scream at the Sendings littering the House. Curse myself raw; curse the filth of the Abhorsens' littering the House. Curse myself for not being able to ... to BURN the whole lot down! I can't scream, I can't hurt myself, I can't even take my own life! _

_Yes! Yes! Yes! Damned YES! You heard right! I wanted to kill myself! _

_But I can't! Damn you! Damn you, Bitch! Damn you to the deepest pits of Death! Death is nothing for me now! I can't even die!_

_A Moth is at least allowed that much grace, even the fire, the flame is consigned to it…BUT NOT ME!_

_For someone like me, Death is nothing. Nothing! Death is the sweet heaven of the Glaciers for me … another pit of ashes! A heaven denied to a black stained bitch. How can the white ice accept my rotten soul? _

_Are you amazed? Are you surprised?! Are you now satisfied?_

_BITCH! That's it!_

_Ah, yes …yes…! _

_HARDER! **HARDER!**_

_Bite into me harder! Tear that unfeeling arm apart!_

_I can feel those claws of yours! Bite me again! I want to feel those jaws crunching through me again! Scream at me! Claw my skin to shreds, yell at me to come out of it! Curse me to the same pits that I cursed you to! Kill me! Just come out from where I know you still exist, from the filthiest pools of my mind and finish what you started!_

_You think leaving me alive you have spared the curse of being the bastard Remembrancer?! You think that I can ever forget what I saw in His mind? Or that in the Dark Mirror in Death?! **Did you? Did you hope I would?! Fool! You pitiless fool!** _

_A thousands curses upon you! Bitch! Foul moth-eaten cur!_

_You sicken me! Filth! You've made me mad … mad with a desire to snuff out the lights of all the living! I can't stand the laughter of living! Yes blind-bitch, I can't stand the living! I can't!_

_Worthless pieces of patched together beings! Why do they even continue to exist?! All of them … with their false smiles, and stinking malice hidden behind fascades of nobility… contaminating a dead diseased world!_

Know what? I dreamt of sending them into death. In scenes of obscenest delights! Yes, you heard right! I sent them! One by one! Groups in groups! I heard their pleas and spit upon them! I laughed at them, at their pathetic tears and their foul pleas to live! What care I?! What care I?! I care not! I turn over and black, black dreams reach for me … one after another, on and on… **Is this what you wanted?!**

_Still think I am sane?! Still think that I was the one meant to put down the Dead?! You truly are a fool!_

_**I can do quite the opposite!**_

_No! Don't look at me with those pity-filled eyes. I haven't a soul left to try and capture in them! Don't look! I swear that I will kick you! I swear I will drive useless Nehima through you! I swear upon this worthless blazon I wear, that I will!_

_Think you, I cannot send the vile living unto death?! Think you, I cannot rip their pitiful souls and cast them into the cold waters?! Think I do not know how?! I have read the Book of the Dead. And yes, cursed fool, every page is burned into my memory!_

_Those dirty inscriptions violate my every dream, every nightmare during the blackest of nights! Grotesque and blackest of those paintings flutter behind my closed eyes, contaminating what is left of my rotten soul! Rituals - rotten, so rotten - fill the deepest pits of my mind! I cannot forget them, Bitch! **I CAN'T BUT KNOW THEM ALL!** Have you forgotten the curse upon me, fool?! Have you?! Did you think the curse of being a damned Remembrancer would lift if you slunk away?! Did you?!_

_You make me retch, sick as I am with those foul memories of you, intruding into every thought, every breath and motion. Go away! Go! Get away so that I can never feel the softness of your neck against my cheek. **Go away so that I don't cry when I think of that!** Run to that gray river so that it can rip you into shreds, and so that I can be rid of you. Not free of you. Rid of you! Do you understand?! _

_Rid of you! RID OF YOU!_

_I … I am ill._

_Love that I thought was mine ... not just given to me. Ill_… _addled, I must have been from before, to think that such a thing could ever be for one like me! For one never loved, for one who never belonged, for the pathetic outcast! For the pale faced willowy wretch, with hair as a black hiding curtain. A curtain fit to hide the white face of a witch with no life and less soul._

_You think you gave me a gift of life! You think you gave me grateful Life, to flaunt such features to a dead world?! Think you I am a monster to hurt you so, to curse you so?! Do you?! **DO YOU?! DAMN YOU!** **Answer me!** You want to know what I am…?! Do you?!_

_**I am a shattered doll! A shattered doll! I am a broken doll, swathed in the wrappings of a bandolier to keep my chest strings together, to keep my broken shell intact confining this … this filthy wretched thing I call a soul! I cling to this decaying world still because of you! Because of your filthy Love!**_

_I wish you – curse you beyond the Ninth gate, your black body scattered among the emerald sky therein. I hope you will then look at me the way you do every night, brown eyes seeking my parched soul through these cursed lamps of mine._

_Know what I will do then? Know what will I do?! Do you? Think you know me well enough?! _

_Not anymore … no longer!_

_I will laugh at that expression in your face. I will cry and spit out every, every bitter, cold hurt in me. I will then rage out every held-back scream begging for release! I will laugh and laugh as you feel the waves from the third Precinct wash away your parasitic shadow of soul still clinging to Life, still clinging to this dried husk of a body with a broken spirit._

**_Know what?_** _Know what I will do then?_

_**WEEP! CRY IN AGONY!**_

_I… I will weep!_

_Weep..._

_I will sob in misery as you are broken away, misting away to a realm never open to me, never meant for my pallid anima. I will bleed out my tears on those cold waves, knowing that I will never, never again see you, never again have you hurt me, hound me, hug me. Never again feel your fur against these fevered cheeks and eyelids. I will heave out the deepest, deepest tears for you Dog. My Disreputable Dog. My Love … mine to love. I will still weep on edge of the Ninth gate, pleading, reaching out my hands to you as you fade away._

_I will scream that I cannot follow! Weep that I cannot follow._

_Know why, Dog? _

_Because… the broken doll seeks an end. Death is no end for me. Death and beyond is no secret for me. Death is no comfort, no escape for the likes of me, for the likes of such abhorrent as me._

_What do I seek?_

_I seek Oblivion._

_I seek a black pit to fall in and keep falling. The end of that long road in my recurring dream. A black pit to smother the last of my hurts. I seek Nothing. Nothing to capture this painted doll and swallow it whole, wipe away all the tear stains on its pale face. Nothing, to rid this cursed mind of all it's obscene, forbidden knowledge._

_Know what I seek Dog?_

_I seek the place that all of the Blood once gathered. I seek the place of the Destroyer's binding. I seek to cast myself off into the Nothing that held me as the Destroyer was struck down. When I find it … know what will happen then?_

_Lirael_ _will speak once more. Lirael will peal once more with the Sorrowful in hand. _

_To cast herself between miserable Life and barred Death. To merciful Oblivion._

_I come first to you and when I'm dry of all tears, I shall speak once more._

_Lirael_ _will peal her last with the Sorrowful beside her. _

**It is unknown to this day, as to whether the one known as Desertus Lirael Alta-meister had made that last journey during the time She had proclaimed to do so in the Praemium Sancta's 19th Hazel May Entry. They are the earliest records of Her words, mere hundred and eighty days after the Destroyers End. However, it must be kept in mind that Praemium Sancta is not a true apocrypha, rather a personal diary, as Her Majesty Sabriel has often referred to them as such. Secondari Sancta is perhaps the true Praemium of the thirteen Apocryphas, having allegedly been compiled and crafted - along with the other twelve - by the Desertus Herself during the dark and terrible days that followed the year after the Destroyer's end. All of the other thirteen Apocryphas are under official and personal seal of His Highness and Her Majesty the Abhorsen, and have never been revealed to scrutiny of the Royal Library nor the Recorders, much less to the public. The reasons remain vague, with plausible rumours of tomes brimming with potent and devastating powers, but nothing of the sort has ever been evidenced or seen by any living witnesses. However, given the deeds of the Desertus, it is not so surprising that their Majesties would subject such measures to seal the Apocryphas. **

**More importantly, related to our topic of discussion – note in the entry, the Destroyer's End is termed as the 'Fallen One's End'. Many speculations have recently arisen as to what She could have … **

**Prologue: Somnos - END **


	2. Chapter 1: Sors Salutis

**Lirael's** **Last Peal – Act I **

'**CARMINA'S KEY LOCKET'**

* * *

_**"… If I feel pain … will I be complete?"**_

_KOSMOS, Xenosaga I - Der wille zur macht_

_**"About suffering they were never wrong, The Old Masters: how well they understood Its human position;"**_

_W.H Auden - Musee des Beaux Arts_

**Chapter 1: Sors Salutis **

The red dusk swept to a hurried close, dragging with it blankets of heavy rain and thunder. The overcast sky, already soaked in black clouds, let out the first grumbles of protest - echoing from far away - rumbling across the high castle ramparts, crashing against a pale figure in the shadows of an arched window - high up in the heavily fortified building. The wind, laden with the many smells of life from far away across the Kingdom, brought with it the sweet scents of the surrounding gardens mingled with the far less desirable odour of human presence from the bustling city below.

The figure was standing within the shadows wreathing the plain grey stone masonry of the window - a perch not often used than lately - serving as window to the white glitter of the Kingdom. A light, tired sigh escaped from hidden lips as the figure moved closer to the failing light offered by the now fast drowning sun. The pale glow bounced off the figure in white, small puffs of wind catching the light silk of the dress and setting it aflutter. With a nod to the renowned gracefulness of Turgeon silk, the wind whipped dress wrapped itself around the body, and revealing the figure to be female – unmistakably and breathtakingly so.

Long, night hair billowed off into the russet dusk like black drapery over an open window, now and then revealing a strikingly pale face. Face pale as fresh snow, the woman's lips lifted in a sad, but serene smile as she felt the cool wind caress her face. It was a pale face whose colour had been leached of its essence, although not of the purity, and never the nobility.

A paleness that did not repulse; in fact it often caused a random passerby to stop and take a second look, lasting perhaps a tad bit longer than what could have been rightly considered dignified. A strange attractiveness, enhanced by the soft beauty that adorned a hard face. Ash black lashes easily curled and touched alabaster cheeks, those pale lips were often drawn up in that selfsame sad smile. Her countenance commanded dignity, respect - awe among others - and wistful smiles among the many unfortunate palace male courtiers. Luminous beauty added a degree of gentleness, but the onlooker would have to be blind to not see the contours of power along the delicate but firm jaw, and nobility along the proud stint of her chin.

The face of a Queen. The face that inspired courage; that drew fear at times of anger, and love at moments of peace and reflection. The face that belonged to the regal Queen of Belisaere - the powerful Abhorsen.

Although, being powerful was the least on her mind now as she stared off into the night sky, watching the last of the gulls spiral off into the distance.

She shook her head as she watched them. _No._ She really was not feeling particularly powerful right now. In fact, she mused wryly, her lips tugging up further in a smile, she would love to be on a Paperwing right now, floating among the deep caresses of the wind, letting the breezes float her among the clouds … no one … just her and clouds …

She shuddered slightly at the thought of that pleasure. A delight too often denied her – for Queen she may be, but her wings were quite fettered these days.

She sighed again, feeling the cares of the past weighing down on her shoulders. So much had happened. Too much … too many deaths … too many tears.

So much had passed in the flow time and never to be tossed back.

How could she, a senior prefect from a proper little Ancelstierrean college – from formal Wyverly college – have become Queen of the Kingdom? Mother to two and matron to countless others. Dreaded and respected Abhorsen to even more so, and wife to a loving husband.

And … an elder Sister to an aching younger one.

Sabriel dropped her head to look below at the lapping waves a bit far away from the castle. From here, she could barely make out the bubbling waves brushing the beach stones. Wearing away relentlessly at the listless pebbles and rocks that reared up in the dusty sand. Time, it seemed would never stop to give her a moment to sit back and catch up with her life, to be a devoted wife to an endearing and affectionate husband and a mother worthy of her children.

" _'I_ _have not been an ideal parent … None of us ever are. When we become the Abhorsen, we lose much else.'_ " she whispered slowly, letting her father's words roll across her memory, the sad smile making its way back to her face. She stared at the gently rolling waves, remembering another Sabriel – the younger one, with that impatience born of youth. One who sipped warm tea, wrapped in blankets awaiting her father's appearance in a full moon, having no other immediate worries in her mind than the nervousness of spilling pent-up joys and fears, youthful guilt and anxieties to confess. But that was a pale image in a clouded glass for a mirror… for she vividly remembered the one who had clasped her dearest Father for the last time, even after she had tried so hard to bring him back to life – and then ultimately failed.

Some things, some matters have no end but failure. Just like the waves wearing at the foundations of the castle, no matter what was done to stop the erosion. Yet, we do all we can to postpone the dreaded inevitable … so should we be calling that valiant effort – hope? Or a prelude to denial … Father?

_Father …can you answer that?_

"Father … have I done enough, have I been worthy of my name?" she asked, knowing that the winds or whatever else might be lurking in the drafts of air, never replied back to the futile queries of mortals.

The winds … were too busy in their own endless paths. She needed assurance. Someone to tell her that she had done right by her Title, right by her responsibilities. That she had done well by the name of Sabriel, the Abhorsen. That she had done … enough being the Abhorsen, being the woman charged with undoing the work of fools and worse.

_Perhaps assurances by someone else is not needed, if I can list so much my self…_

The smile tugged up higher in pale lips.

Assurances and concessions she could give herself, but …

But she was weary, feeling the seventeen years of toil and more on her shoulders … and across her chest. Weary of the endless toil that dogged her every waking hour.

Her head drooped lower, cascades of shiny black tresses dropping around her face, hiding it from view.

She could feel it even now, without its physical presence - the hard yet supple feel of the leather bandolier. The skin between her breasts and abdomen prickled at the mere thought of the bells. It was as if their memory was not just etched in her mind. It was ingrained in her flesh. She was branded with it.

Even now…

The last few night-black locks caught behind ears by silver pins came loose, this time totally obscuring her pale face in its midnight flow. Chin on chest, Sabriel breathed in deeply, letting the calm around her enter her body, stilling the twitches, calming the shivers across her body.

There … she breathed deeply once more time. It was calm.

But not all.

All but her fingers, which were still clutching the stone works of the window, splotches of red appearing around the knuckles of her long pale fingers.

Yet another effort relaxed them somewhat, and she stood unmoving for a long time, staring at the fingers curled around the window edges. Her fingers were even now twitching of their own desire, remembering the cool Charter inlaid handles of her bells. Her dark eyes kept their stare upon the fingers, not blinking away the slight film of tears obscuring the edges of her vision.

She was past Kerrigor. She was past the restoration of the Old Kingdom. She had paid in blood, body and soul to rid the filth infesting the Kingdom. She had nearly paid with her life at the time of the Destroyer. So why were her fingers still twitching? Was peace truly beyond her? Was it? Did she believe it?

She shook her head, sending a flurry of silky black strands into the dusk laden sky. She knew the denial was without any conviction, but she didn't trust herself to come up with an answer to that particular question. Perhaps the truth was beyond what she could bear - that her weariness was not because she lacked the strength to fight that which opposed her dreaded work. But more because of the continuing assault on her nerves, will and her very soul at the relentless efforts of fools who never learned their lessons. Fools who would deal with Death and not know the storms that would be the result of their incessant meddling.

And she had weathered storms, all right.

She had weathered away the tempests known as Kerrigor and the Destroyer. Would she be able to weather anymore? The peace that lay a tantalizing hand's breadth away was too slight, too surreal and much more unreal.

The Dead would always remain, as well as the arrogant few who would raise them at the risk of themselves as well as everyone around them. Fools that she would be called to put to rest - one way or the other - easier would the task be if they listened and harder still if they didn't. And much darker…. She sighed yet once more, hating this mood that she seemed to be sunk in this night. The mood she seemed to be in these recent nights. She peeked up from behind the long fall of her midnight hair - which was much too long she thought wryly.

_Night?!_

She lifted up her head, startled out of her reverie. What the…? Dark … already?! Sabriel grinned mockingly, tucking away some of the errant silky strands of hair behind one ear. Some Queen she was, not even able to keep track of time! She laughed out loud then, letting the dark mood fall off in a whisper, laughing for the sheer joy of the oncoming night, and her own apparent lack of concern.

And knowing who her laughter would bring, she mused smirking slightly, she did not mind at all. As a matter of fact, she twitched her head to the side - she could already hear him making his usual way here.

So close. Ah yes…

He would duck his head through the low entrance to the window chamber, their own Chamber, those brown curls grazing the frame ever so slightly, … oh so beautiful the brown curls. She shivered happily, letting her eyelids drift close, imagining him approach … him stumble across some footstool.

She smiled, hearing the small muffled curse that followed. She imagined the black robe being slung off, to land crumpled beside the dresser, which she thought wryly, she would have to pick up later so that the silk did not crumple.

Her breath escaped in a soft chuckle, as she heard the door latch lift ever slowly. It was their game. He would steal in here to surprise her, and she would fall into his arms, making some comment on his utterly stealthy approach. She let a soft laugh fall again, tilting her head backwards - a black fall cascading down to drape across pale white shoulders - awaiting his presence.

There. He was in and tiptoeing across the thick carpet to her.

He was here. The woody fragrance hit her first and she relaxed completely for the first time this afternoon, imagining his broad arms enfolding her from the back … feeling the sudden warmth of his chest against her back as she folded into his embrace; leaning back from the open window and resting her cheek against the arms and the warmth that held her.

Soft lips grazed her right ear and she heard her name being called.

Called in that same husky whisper … making her squirm delightedly and shiver in anticipation. He was here, holding her.

Touchstone.

Her love, her heart and her husband. Father to her children. Loving husband and so much more.

Coming in as usual to hold her when she needed it the most.

He was large in frame - dwarfing her slight figure - a testament to the berserker blood raging in his veins. However, the calm hazel gaze had none of the rage, and even less of the animosity. Touchstone, King of Belisaere had come to his wife at last, after a day of menial tasks that demanded more attention and energy than ever deemed possible since he had undertaken them at dawn.

He held Sabriel tighter, watching her pale face - stark against the dark of his clothes, watching with wonder again the soft beauty in his arms.

Sabriel. Every step that she took, every breath she breathed, captured his soul and stilled his breath.

Queen she might be, political power she maybe, eternal Abhorsen she was, but little did the world know about Sabriel. The woman who nestled in his arms, a content smile lighting up face, was one who was more than just beautiful – she was someone who could tear his eyes up from even the most frustrating issues at hand. Who could with the smallest of her smiles turn him from foulest of moods to one of whimsical joy. And of wonder. Wonder with which he stared at her now - at those closed eyes, curled black lashes brushing her cheeks and her slightly parted mouth, hushed breaths barely audible.

How could he have had her? This beauty that rested in his arms, the one which he now gently rocked in the winds? He looked at the top of her silken head, a white halo shining in her midnight hair. Nothing was needed to be uttered, he felt and knew what she wanted just by looking at her snuggled face, feeling the warmth of her body that drove away the slight chill from outside. Dropping his face to bury it among the silkiness of her hair, he heard her breath fall more regularly and a small moan of content escape her lips.

Comfort and assurance was what she wanted, and he would be there when she needed it. He had promised it then and he would keep it always.

He would.

Gently, so not to dislodge her, he swept his arm down her body and around her waist, turning her slightly and pulling her closer. He let the other hand gently cup around her head, fingers curling amongst the silken fall that was her hair. In automatic response he felt her arms reach out and encircle him. As he held her, loving every touch and feel, he tried to ignore the hard pang in his heart as he looked at her calm face. A face that so often seemed to be drawn with worry, with responsibility and the burden of being the Abhorsen. _If he lost her…_ He buried his face deeper, feeling again the satin smoothness against his cheeks, smelling lavender from the darker depths.

_No, he couldn't think of that…_ Drawing his fingers through the fully free hair, he let his fingers brush against her temple letting them drift across her eyes, and then sliding down her jaw to the hollow of her neck. He quietly listened to her breathe in deeper and deeper as he rested his fingers there…

"Did I tell you today?" he whispered, his voice muffled by his nuzzling atop her forehead.

Sabriel embraced him harder, feeling the hardened muscles again and taking the strength from them. "Mmmmhhhhh … ," she replied, not willing to break this precious moment, cherishing the feeling he aroused when his hand came to rest at the base of her throat. Only one could make her feel so safe, secure, and loved. Only one she would open her heart to so.

Touchstone looked down at her closed eyes and smiled. He leaned in closer, whispering, "Did I tell you how you beautiful you look in that white dress?"

"Mhmnnnnn…" was the only muffled reply he heard.

He leaned in closer to her closed eyelids and gently kissed them, drawing another tired sigh from her. Careful not to disturb her, he withdrew his hand from the base of her throat, hearing a slight disconsolate protest that made him smile even harder. Lowering his head once more he whispered from behind her ears, smelling the same fresh spring musk.

"Didn't I tell you looked gorgeous with your hair long and down? Especially with that white dress. I am surprised you actually chose to wear that … considering everything…"

She opened her eyes slowly, blinking them to come back to the world. For a moment she just stared at nothing, just feeling his breath against the back of her ear, and the surety of strength in his arms as he held her.

Finally, she tilted her head upwards to meet his awaiting his gaze above. Soft brown eyes met her own tired gray ones.

* * *

The rook was trailing her. Falling through the damp wet air and then swooping back up again, its inky black feathers leaving a trail that her eyes silently followed. Peering out from beneath long, long dark tresses they pursued its endless flight. Raven hair shifted and fell like a shimmering curtain of purest silk, as her head tilted further up keeping the spiraling rook in sight. A sudden glare from the sinking sun reflected up from behind the black mass and identified themselves as eyes belonging to a white robed girl huddled in a ball, propped up by broken stones from a nearby wall. Her shiny mass of dark hair was untied and stained the white of her dress in thousands of sparkling black rivulets.

_There it was again. Falling forever, on and on…._

_It was so filthy. And yet it lived. Why? Why couldn't it just dive down and die impaled on the rocks below? Why?_

_What made it want to live so much? Should it …even live?_

_What drove it? Mindless survival? Hunger? … Pain? _She clenched her left hand, feeling her nails bite into the flesh of her palms. Her head nodded down as she watched the rook spiral to the far away ground again. Falling and ever climbing back up. Mocking her with its dance. Sneering at her torment, at her … utter defeat. Mocking her helplessness.

The nails bit in harder as she tightened her fist. Tighter and tighter she clenched her fist until she couldn't even feel her palm.

_No pain … no pain at all. That was her existence. No pain at all…helpless._

The left hand quivered with the tremendous stress put upon it, and moving away from the silent contemplation of the lone rook, her head bowed back into her pulled-in legs. Back into her slouching crouch by the castle ramparts. Back into the slim comfort of her cold knees and shoulders that trembled slightly in the damp weather. Her right arm lay useless, caressing the overhanging scaffolding of the rampart, while the left one moved of its own accord dangling over one knee.

_There…it was … near._

A blurred line of pain jabbed up her wrist as she felt the skin finally give and break, the nails of her first two fingers cutting past her suddenly throbbing hand.

However, she didn't let go.

Not yet. _Not enough pain … yet …she wouldn't be helpless! That would be worse than defeat, worse than her present fate! If this was the only thing she could control, then so be it. SHE WOULD NOT BE CONTROLLED! Never AGAIN! _

That thought burned through her mind, and her fist rolled in tighter. Digging deeper into the wounds and opening further ones.

_Helpless was she? Useless was she?!_

The first bright trickle of blood slid down to her wrist and dripped off there, the crimson drops clinging stickily before splashing softly on to the dry stones below. Seemingly desperate enough to remain hanging onto her pale, pale silken skin. The red stain stark against the pale white of her skin.

_This blood of hers … was it her life? The cursed thing that coursed through her, made her hurt so much each day, gag in misery each hour, each breath? Was this making her live … even though she had promised to end it all?!_

Another red drop fell and splattered below her knees. The shiny black mass of hair shifted as one eye watched another red bead start its trip down.

And it fell … fell … splashed the grey stones red. _Why was it so red? It was so dark when it came seeping out. So dark when inside of me, so utterly dark, and now it would pale when it came out. Not enough. Not enough pain. The pins jabbing her wrist and elbow was not enough. _

_She needed to feel the cold stab of a blade. Then she would be…_

Her elbow bent and the knuckles of her left hand paled even more as she watched it from her pillow of knees. Bemused, she stared at the red staining the tips of her curled in fingers, and then slowly pulled them out from their excursion into her palm, feeling them peel out of the bloody smears there. Her hand trembled. A few flecks of blood splattered down onto the ground below, the quiver resulting in a dull spiking pain resonating from deep within her palm. Still staring, she gently straightened her palm, feeling the ravaged skin split apart from each other, more blood seeping through.

The joints of her fingers creaked.

Fully straightened now, Lirael gazed at the pallid white of her palm staring out from beneath a mass of red and black. _Still not enough_. The blood had almost stopped flowing. Not enough… Not enough … for what she wanted. Closing her opened eye, Lirael turned her face back into her knees, black hair pouring onto her bare white shoulders.

Now it was … time.

Pain. She needed to feel more of it. More! More until it all burned red white. Until it was all but white!

She slammed her fingers back into her ravaged palm. Crushing them close, feeling the wet trickle become very warm all of a sudden.

This time the jolt of pain ripped up all the way through her wrist to her shoulder, burning with a cold, cold flame. Gasping suddenly, her had sagged back into sturdy wall behind her, her long black tresses finally revealing a pale, beautiful visage.

If the first coat of winter snow could be called beautiful, then, her face outshone its glitter by an ethereal beauty. Beyond beautiful, she was much, much more. Uncannily similar to the Queen, the Abhorsen, her face radiated majesty, power, and glowed with a luminous softness that tugged at the heart. With softly curving cheekbones, an elfin chin met a delicate jaw line. The pale, but slightly plump lips parted in the aftermath of shock, and some stray strands of dark hair fluttered over her drawn face; perfect features all adding to the mystery emanating from her countenance.

But more than all that was the pain …the pain that was so stark against a face far too young. Too out of place in a face dominated by such beauty … it was a shock enough like a stinging slap to the face, or a punch to the gut. There was a sense of profound loss, to see such beauty marred by so much anguish. Thus, it was a face not too many gazed long upon, as much as it demanded immediate attention when glanced at. It reflected back something not of the world - a countenance that professed to know too much, had seen far too much and had suffered equal much. A face crying for succor that none could provide, but could only turn sorrowfully away from. Ever to be left on it's own lone dark way.

A_lways doomed to follow my own path. I need not any path that I will regret taking. Regret does not exist within me. Emotions … I cannot express with this face._

_This face of mine … is it a mirror? To reflect the falsehood, or to bare this rotten soul of mine naked on the silver?_

A choking wheeze came out of the huddled figure with one pleading hand outstretched, dribbling red blood onto the uncaring hard stones below. The white sleeves rustled and wavered with the slight movement.

She laughed again, a cold rasping whisper like that of dry marble on husks of grain. She hadn't heard her own voice since that day, when it all ended. And then, … Sam had flinched away from the same laugh, averting his gaze, hiding his … sorrow.

_The only one other than … other than Sister … Sabriel, who feels sorrow. Sam … too full of pity, far too noble. So strong. Too right! Her laugh was just the mockery of his chimes of delight. But …did she care about that?_

Again the laugh resounded in the empty spire, and in her mind she imagined the black speck of a rook dawning down again to where she sat huddled … all alone. Nearer it came. Nearer and darker…

_No. She didn't. She didn't have the joy, and cared nothing for it anymore … she could only take it away from others. As she had then, from Sam who had only wanted to hug her shoulders and help her stand from the ashes of grey. Trying to shake her from the daze of loss._

_Her laugh then … had made him turn his face and shiver back away from her._

_Her face always aided her. And it was a mirror…?Or was it the abyss where she had promised to go, and seek her Oblivion? _

_Ha! She had failed in that. Failed to reach the endless pit. _

_Before._

_But not any more._ _Pain can only mar that ennui, not change it. _

_This pain lancing through me now, only helps, but does nothing to ease it …and will never change it. Not for me._

…

_Never. But it doesn't matter now … because…_

_It was nearly time… _

…_and the imposed pain was complete, as was the messenger key …_

Her left eye popped open, flaring sideways to watch the rook with a cold gaze, very much aware of the warm wetness that slicked down her hand.

_Time to begin her descent. To plunge into a darkness that not even the fires burning beneath her eyes could discern. Time to break away … and let the strings of the doll fall._

The rook fell again, mindlessly seeking its own entertainment, swooping up a moment later, drawing near to the edge of the broken battlements.

* * *

Sabriel smiled as she felt her husband's arm tighten, while he gently rocked her. She peeked up from lowered lashes to catch the slightly mocking grin. Chuckling softly she considered his earlier query.

"How beautiful I look in this? Well, at least four times today… _At least…_" She quirked up an eyebrow to catch his husky laughter and the glittering mirth obvious in his eyes.

Even he hadn't the time to smile often lately … being King to a restored kingdom, was taking its steady toll on him. Suddenly feeling an overpowering sense of protectiveness, she swept her right arm around his broad warm back and pulled him even closer, his slight beard tickling her forehead.

Slowly looking into his eyes she whispered, "But then, again considering how much you paid Jihan for it this morning, how could I not wear it, hmmmm?"

Touchstone laughed again, and brought up his right hand to chuck her gently underneath the chin, nudging her eyes to lock with his. And … finally they did. No battle gleam shone there, no responsibility owned its gaze and the only thing present was the tranquil smile that had always made her so enticing.

"True. But then again, I think it was worth three times the amount I paid for it especially when you're wearing it now." Lowering his voice he drifted in close to her pale lips, so soft and warm. So heartbreakingly inviting, as was the smile adorning them.

Closer…

Sabriel closed her eyes, feeling Touchstone's warm breath brushing against her lips, and her arms tightened around him of their own accord. _This is what I live for. He is the reason I will always wear away the storms. Oh …Touchstone…_

…

…

* * *

_"_Adoriorori … obsesidis … _vis vanesco maneixalis…" _The words played in her mind, resounding like tolling bells whose peals cascaded off hollowly. Bells who had no audience, but just tolled their inevitable brazen calls on and on. Gone was her earlier pose of helplessness. A terrible eagerness cried out in her taut posture leaning against the half broken scaffolding. The fires burning deep in her flared up eagerly, hungrily seeking the taste of life, having lain dormant for so long. Dimly sorting through the myriad of other feelings and senses, she watched the rook making its calm way up, hugging close to the spire walls.

_What was it's purpose? Why were you born? You will no longer even get to die now. You should have died earlier…._

_Did she … she feel … sadness there? Did she…?_

_No._

_Not anymore._

It was nearing the edge of the battlements where she leaned with her keen vigil. She could make out its wet black eyes staring at her. _Do you know then? Are you willing…?_

_"Vabre … malchet …citare!"_

Her dripping left hand pulsed painfully, throbbing in rhythm with the rapid staccato of her heartbeat and slowly the red blood dripping down grew even darker, the crimson congealing into a shiny black mass. Then even more slowly, the pool of blood near her feet began to glow a sickly green, and the ribbons of red blood encircling her hand shone from within, until they emanated a similar verdant.

The rook drew nearer and nearer, hesitating near the edge … and then suddenly speeding up as if sensing something utterly wrong, its shrill cawing echoing in the silence.

But it was too late.

The glowing hand leapt out too fast for the eye to follow and grasped it by its neck, its shrill cries fading away into the sudden silence.

_There is no escape from me…_

In one single movement Lirael straightened, her white robe falling freely around her, hugging her slim form in the errant breezes that had suddenly sprung up. The white material of her robe clung and fluttered around perfect curves of her body, but it was of a crystalline beauty - a marble statue against the dark sky. Shimmering tresses of raven hair whipped freely around her body before rolling all the way to her waist.

Looking at the pitiful black bundle in her hands, she could feel its tiny life pulsing underneath her ravaged palms.

_I see … then, the answer is no. Why would you be willing? Of course you wouldn't. All life hung like children to their mothers. You would not want to disappear… but it is too late for you. _

The rook in her hands struggled once more, dirty black pinions fluttering in alarm.

It's beating wings, stained with the red of Lirael's blood, painted the whole scene nightmarish - with fluttering black feathers and red droplets.

And then its head drooped silently at one husky whisper from Lirael.

_The key was almost crafted. The first lock could now be opened. It would be only sometime before she found the others ... and then she would not be denied!_

_Never denied!_

Her whole being burned, burned with hidden flames licking her insides and desires, scorching and even stirring up shivers crawling up her side. An ecstatic feeling even, caressing every inch of her body and skin. Fanning the much darker fires within her to life.

_It was now time. Time for the molding and casting._

Holding the rook negligently in one hand she whispered a raspy word. For one moment all was still and then the pool of glowing blood spun around her, slithering out crimson threads from the congealed mass into forbidden lines and circles, finally knitting into a glowing red rune underneath her feet. Stained red with Lirael's lifeblood, it pulsed with her heartbeat.

She brought the trembling, wildly quivering black form closer to her eyes, staring balefully into the mindless terror of the rook.

_Stop me now. Stop me now… conscience. Bar me now pity. Hold me back Dog. Can you? No one can. No one will stop me now. No one can stop me._

"_Aleci vividorum nincum soro…"_

The blood-red streaks throbbing with each beat of her pulse, expanded to rings of blinding brightness and then rose up in spirals, glaring with its painful beauty. Thousands of incandescent sparks shot out in the air, sizzling out in a torrent to dazzle even the brightest noon Sun. The spiral arms, tinged with red now grew taller and wilder each passing second, wreathing its deadly caresses around Lirael and coalescing in a silvery pool around the bewildered rook. The sizzling fire had a life of its own, seemingly beating and flowing with every soft inflection of Lirael's dreadful chanting.

Lirael's voice kept up its hoarse whisper, the soft murmurs terribly drawn as if forced out from a throat dry with a raging fever. Almost cracking, it was even more terrible to hear with the power behind each syllable. Each word set the fire burning around ablaze with an unholy conflagration, pulsing with a hunger that clawed at her but was unable to reach her. Instead seeming to feed the hunger deep in her…

And then … all of the raging turbulence snuffed out, leaving a sudden void that echoed Lirael's whispering to a violent crescendo, the harsh whisper mocking the dreadful silence in the air.

"Rask Vanth Rakh!"

Dark, dark eyes suddenly glittered with a terrible feeling. Feverish hunger. Pale lips peeled back in a ghastly smile, as she whispered mockingly to the petrified rook, only now cast in purest silver. "And now … you are mine."

A final shiver drove through what remained of the rook, the black of its feathers and skin succumbing to the silver that seeped into it.

Finally, desperation turned itself to a shriek of utter terror that echoed from its deepest, deepest core. The shriek resonated wildly in the silent air, screaming of indescribable loss and despair.

And then cut off…

Lirael's eyes gleamed even brighter, burning flat with a silver flame.

* * *

…….!

The shriek echoed across her muffled thoughts, burning, tearing away any thoughts of love and passion. Staggering in its intensity, she fought the mindless terror in panic.

Sabriel's eyes snapped open and she stumbled back from her husband's embrace in horror, like she had been just stabbed mortally. The lingering kiss lay forgotten. Reeling back from the amazed and dreadfully concerned Touchstone, she tripped back towards the wall behind, vaguely seeing Touchstone's mad rush and outreaching arms.

Her pale face reflected a dread that tore at Touchstone's heart, and her eyes… he shuddered. Her eyes … shivered in a frightening pain. Leaping beside her, he gently supported her trembling, crouching form by the window.

He didn't understand what had happened. One moment she had given in to passion and then that look of utter pain and horror on her face …! His heart beating with a frantic fear for Sabriel, he held her quivering shoulders firmly as they seemed unable to hold her up. And this disturbed him beyond anything else.

Never had he _ever_ seen Sabriel like this! Never! By the Charter, she looked so … so pale…! He shivered as the last image of her stricken face arose in his mind. Her rapid breaths grew ever hoarser, her face bowed underneath the curtain of black hair, her arms supported her just barely from the floor. Anxious beyond his patience, he urged her up … and then held stock-still.

Held fast by the look on Sabriel's pallid face, held in thrall by the look in her eyes.

He had seen fear in those eyes before, fear for her family, fear for him and fear for so many other things important to her. And horror had also burned there.

But not like this. He stared … stuck dumb.

_Not like this…_

Not with the mindless horror and fear that seethed inside those dark eyes. And the pain in them was beyond his telling, bringing a lump to his throat as he stared at her pinched lips. Finally breaking the spell, he drew close trying to ease her pain as much as possible, gently cupping her chin.

"What is it?" he asked quietly, the terrible urgency stark in his voice. "What just happened? You look like … like when the great Charters…" his voice drifted off.

Sabriel still staring blankly at nothing, reached out one hand and grasped his own, startling him by their coolness that leeched away at his own warmth. The pressure was not comforting either. When she finally spoke, her tone was filled with the same horror reflected in her eyes, and filled with the same pain. "Something … something … just cried. Cried out a loss so terrible … that … it resounded through Death! Tore through the boundaries everywhere. And… " her eyes took on a haunted cast, as she paused.

"What?" Touchstone gently prodded, lending more warmth by squeezing her chilled palms.

"And there's a … a wrongness here. So wrong!" her voice again took on a frightened timbre, a sick feeling raging in her stomach and invading through her body, burning away all strength. It cost her so much to even stay upright, and without Touchstone she would have fallen. "The wrongness is overwhelming … much, much more than anything I've ever felt! And the sickness it brings … pal… pales the breaking of the Great Charters! Charter … ah … so much … pain!" She groaned and doubled over in agony as the sickness ripped through her limbs again, this time her brace on the floor crumpling. Touchstone grimly caught her and then carried her hurriedly to the satin divan resting nearby, for once glad that this room had been furnished so meticulously. Having done that, he kneeled helplessly by her as the paroxysm ripped through her folded form.

He couldn't sense anything wrong with her… but the sight of Sabriel writhing in agony tore at his heart until it bled. _He couldn't do a damned thing! _He didn't know what to do! This wasn't a simple affliction of the body that he could soothe away with the healing flow of Charter, for he could sense nothing that ailed her … made her hurt so much! How could he help her when all he could do was just stand by watching her twist in pain?! All he could do was … just sit here helpless and murmur it was going to be alright.

Useless! Useless!

Still, he did just that - kneeling beside her and bleeding inside, murmuring sounds that made no logical sense to him. After a while he gently asked, not willing to disturb her scarce peace and observing her face to be still pinched with suffering.

"Is it gone?"

Sabriel straightened up slowly and sat with her breath coughing up in painful wheezes, her head throbbing. She could hear again and again, the frightful grief laid scream ravaging through all her thoughts, not letting her a moment of relief. And they did not let down. Even in the recesses of her mind, they still echoed as much as she tried to drown it out. Such terrible loss … and the sickening nausea, filled with a distressing combination of Free magic and excessive drawing on the Charter…

Then … there was that feeling of absolute wrong in the aftereffects of the scream … truly horrible, _horrible_, beyond anything she had ever faced. And labouring for the past twenty years, she had met with much foulness and perversion. But this aberration in the flow of the Charter and in Death was jarring to her very _soul_. Especially in her sense of Death, as the scream seemed to be filled with an anguish so intense that even Death seemed to howl with it.

And Death … if even the forces in Death were crying out… A memory flickered in her tired mind, throwing up forbidden images from the Book of the Dead. _The ritual of Blood and Soul…_

Her pupils dilated in shock.

Touchstone noting this sat even more still, reaching out only to clasp her hands in her lap waiting impatiently for her to speak.

"Charter help us…!" Sabriel whispered, looking aghast at her husband. "It is as if the soul of something living cried out its last moments before being totally consumed! Blotted out of existence. As if it never existed at all… And Death wails its terror at the deed." Her gaze grew even more frightened. "The soul is gone … as if … as if it has been … erased."

Touchstone stared back. "You mean you can no longer even sense the passage of the soul?" The slight nod of her head was his grim confirmation. "I thought that was impossible. I thought…," the horror finally sinking in, he swallowed with difficulty. "I thought that was not possible…" he whispered again.

They were both frightened, and they had every right to be. This was a thought that had never even occurred to them, it was too horrible, too unholy. Then an even more disturbing thought struck Sabriel as she stared into her husband's troubled brown eyes.

_Who was behind this?_

Someone who knew the darkest secrets of Necromancy with a clarity not even given to most Abhorsens. That was the reason behind the spell of protection on the Book of the Dead, and the spell of forgetfulness. It protected the wielder of the dread knowledge in the book, from itself. She didn't know about the spell of blood that had enabled what had just occurred, until now when the memory had resurfaced … and then only dimly. She had not even deemed it possible! Such knowledge was bound. Never to be released.

"So did I … _until now_…" she answered back, bringing moisture back to her suddenly dry lips.

The unease growing into full-blown fear, she pulled up Touchstone and then strode over to the window gingerly. Her legs and ribs hadn't quite fully recovered form the bone-aching sickness. A sudden chill wind fluttered her pale white dress, whipping it around her slender form and she shivered. Touchstone, who had followed with his cloak, draped it around her shoulders and she looked back with a grateful wan smile. His own answering smile had enough warmth to hold her, but she still saw the tightness at the corner of his lips.

"Whatever has happened…," the smile vanishing on her lips, she turned to gaze out the window. "It does not bode well. I can't sense the source of the disturbance. It resonated strangely though the borders of Death. As if it does not want to be found … yet… it seems to be as if it is near."

Touchstone looked down at the sudden pause, curiously. A strange look filled her eyes as she cocked her head to the side, as if trying to hear something very faint.

"What? Do you hear something…?"

"No… no. I just…" she shook her head slightly, the black tendrils of hair shifting and then falling again. A frown crinkled her eyebrows. "I just thought … for a moment before the scream… I thought I had heard bells tolling."

Touchstone looked sharply down at her from behind, but her face revealed nothing. "A necromancer … nearby?"

"Mhmmm … no. Not a necromancer." But the frown just got even deeper. "Strange… I cannot sense nor taste the smell of Free Magic. Yet, the calling of the spell requires the use of Free Magic, one of the reasons that it is a forbidden spell. Ones that cannot be remembered under normal circumstances. But now … if that binding is gone … it is not well at all. Too many will have sensed that outbreak, and will attempt that which is most foolish."

"You mean knowledge of that kind is regularly constrained?"

"Yes. The knowledge in that book is … vast. And for most times … I would be more than glad to be rid of it." A shiver shot through her voice and Touchstone did not miss it. "The Book of the Dead contains perhaps all that is ever there to know about the secrets of Death and its many paths." Her voice hushed, and her gray eyes darkened perceptibly, remembering and trying to forget.

He shuddered despite himself, and for one wild moment he wondered what it was that Sabriel remembered every time her eyes darkened like that. And what it was that held her sanity in check.

A quite moment of unease passed between them, and then Sabriel shook her head in frustration, turning to smile reassuringly at Touchstone's concerned gaze.

"But whoever had constructed the knowledge and bound it all into one book … was kind … as well as wise. Knowledge of that sort is not something I would like to keep bottled inside me everyday. It would drive me insane." She said the last with clinical deliberateness. "As I said, there are … locks of sorts. It keeps us from knowing it all … all being too much for one person. Just now, I didn't even know of what had happened and even now… I only know little of it. That is the Book's spell of forgetfulness at work. But no… I do not think any will have knowledge of the forbidden spell. Though necromancers … have their own methods of gaining knowledge about the ways of Death. And the price they pay for it … are fearsome."

Fearsome price. Yes … he knew that only too well. A price that corrupted every last vestige of honour and humanity. The price that Rogir had paid, and so many others before and after him.

"But though none will know of the spell, they will inevitably draw themselves to the one who does. And that is even more of concern. Their concerted might, will be more than a slight problem. There are still too many rogues wandering on their own. Yet … there is more. From what I can remember…," grimacing, Sabriel moved two fingers to her right temple, messaging a sudden throbbing there. "I do not even know the result of such a spell. And in that I am twice more the fool. All I can remember is the utter loss in the scream … and… and…." Her voice broke off unsteadily and her face twisted, as if in agony.

"The … pain … oh the pain… and the utter anguish in that scream!" Voice strangling with the last, her eyes squeezed shut as if trying to block out unheard voices and screams.

Touchstone stood helplessly. This was one thing he could not help her with - he could do nothing beyond standing by and comforting her when she needed it. His hand reached out to clasp her shoulder through the cloak.

…

Sabriel took another deep breath, shaking her head to rid it of the horrendous shriek of despair and loss still resounding through. But not succeeding entirely. After a moment she straightened her head back up, her silken hair fluttering to settle over Touchstone's fingers, who made no move to shift them.

When she finally spoke, her voice had regained their strength and conviction. "I do not know what has happened. But I will soon. I shall have to look at the Book and maybe Mogget will know more about it than I do. He's sure to have felt it. Many will have, no doubt…"

Touchstone nodded silently in agreement, and stood by Sabriel as she stared off into the night. He didn't have much more to say, and there was not much they could do right now. All they could do was wait. Wait in silence.

The sun had sunk, only it's last dying crimson glows stained the dark sky blood red at the horizon. The oncoming night, which had just a few moments ago seemed so calm and comforting, its soft winds so full of spirit, seemed suddenly utterly cold and lifeless. No more caressing wind tugged at her heart to fly free among the clouds. The dread that had started at the first shock of the scream, now ran through her entire body. The night was suddenly too dark and too still, hiding things that she didn't understand, slyly smothering the wrongness that had billowed out.

_I stood here at dusk thinking about the storms that I had weathered … now I feel this. What was that? What could have lost so much, to cry like that? And even more so … who still has such power to create so much pain? Who? Power to wrench asunder the one thing that can never be destroyed. Enslaved … but never destroyed. Who…?!_

_And where are they this night?_

_Storms she had weathered … but never before had she felt something brewing like this. The worst she knew was about to come in the morning after this night, when the night would turn over and awaken to a murky dawn._

_Storms … no. She did not have the vision of the Clayr, but damned she would be if she called this any less than a storm._

_It would be a … Maelstrom._

_A Maelstrom to remember._

_End of Chapter One_

* * *

**Hwena: **You think so? Heheh … just watch what happens as we go along! I know the first chapter's a bit depressing, but I guess I wanted to show a side of Lirael that will be very important as this story goes along. I promise it won't be all depressing. For example … the start of this chapters does have a tad bit of romance. Heheh!

**mysticdreamer42: **Hehe! I love the word … 'splediforous'! Thanks sooo much! Wow … (sparkly eyes) … to have one your works called a work of art!!!! WOWOWOWOW! (bows to you) But heh … as you said there's always a but. I agree with you when you say that Lirael's not really broken at the Abhorsen. But I guess I should've said before, that this is just one way of looking at the end. Someone will come out from reading the end of Abhorsen and say that she has the strength to look on the past with fond memories. But you might just as well wonder, if losing Dog, who is more than just a dear friend, will she be able to look back with fond memories. I know Lirael has a strength that can never be denied nor stifled by anything, but I just wanted her to realize that anew, but this time 'unaided'. She seemed so frail to me at the end … thus, the broken. And oh yeah! Do you really get the impression she was angry at the Dog? Hmmm … I was hoping more of a real confusion of emotions there. But as to the anger part … well … I'll only say this. Keep reading … I'll bring it up more, and explain more. Heeeeeeeeeeh! (wink)

**Inkblot: **First off, I love that name! Inkblot! Hehehe! Anyway … (now that you think I'm totally weird :) ) … thanks so much for the review. Hey you agree with me! Grief is exactly what I wanted to come out from the last chapter. Not angst … but grief. And this chapter? The aftereffects of such a deep grief. Thanks so much!!!

**EowynDernhelm: **Hey! Long time no speak! Sorry! Sooo busy! But yah! Thanks sooo much for review. Keep reading and the broken Lirael might surprise you! Heeeeee! Say … it _has_ been soooooooooo long a time since I last talked to you! Darn!!!! Ah well … now the more chance. Hehe!

**Wake-Robin: **Glad to have you on board! Well ... there'll be plenty more to come. Hopefully, you enjoy this chapter as the last one. Thanks soo much!


	3. Chapter 2: Et Virtutis

Some Notes:

First off, I'd like to give an enormous thanks to all those who have reviewed my newly re-posted chapters 1-2, and those who have already commented from before. You guys are what makes staying up till 3:00 am after studying for physics worth it!

**A note of caution about this chapter: **There is a fair amount of blood and gore in this chapter. As I had intended, this story will get darker and maybe the rating should go up. Hmmm … I dunno… it's not 'too' much, but then what's 'too' much?

Anyway. Now for my recent reviewers:

**Sabriel** **Silverwing**: Thanks so much! Btw, I just love your pen name!

**SecretLife**: Glad you liked it! Glad to have you onboard! Hope you like what's coming up!

**Adverk**: My friend, to you I give great thanks! It was in part to you and all the other reviewers that brought me OUT of my impending writer's block! Thank you! Lol, your predictions are wild! I won't say too much, but I can guarantee that Lirael is going to be a force to be reckoned with. As for suicide … she already tried to commit suicide once, but didn't … for whatever reason. We'll see more revelations later. And as for your suggestions…!!!! They were great! I was squirming with delight! Ah … Kerrigor and Mogget. Never fret! I have definitely not forgotten them! (lol. You love victims don't you? Lol. But then so do I!)

The remembrancer's curse is something that will definitely play a HUGE role in the story. Garth Nix – my idol – I think left soooo many delightful tidbits in Lirael and Abhorsen that is nigh impossible to resist to expand upon. Sigh … I'm hoping I get all of them incorporated in this story. And as for what she did to the rook, you'll be getting a much better picture after this chapter. Welll … not a full picture, but that will be soon. THANKS SO MUCH AGAIN!

**Ano-nimmus: **Awwww … you almost made me blush! I am glad to have you as one my readers and reviewers! I hope I can keep you happy!

And as for anyone else that I might have missed, I thank you so very much!

So … shall we get to the main event?

-Lordfolken

**Lirael's** **Last Peal – Act I**

'**CARMINA'S KEY LOCKET'**

**

* * *

**"_**One 'must' replay good and ill; but why just to the person who did us good or ill?"**_

_Nietzche: Jenseits von Gut und Bose_

**Chapter 2: Et Virtutis**

_It was lonely now…_

_I have taken away what is most precious … and undeniably a personal sacrament. And I have destroyed it … twisted and carved it to fit my own liking. The way it should be. The way I wanted it to be._

_Was that … right? Justified?_

_I care … Do I?_

That deed she had done without any thoughts of sadness or remorse…

_Haven't I? _

Did she feel any sadness and remorse even now…?

_No. I am past the weakness. I am past that temptation, that gold shining in the torrents. _

Emotions were a danger to her … an anathema. Even more towards what she needed to do.

_And that was unforgivable!_

She would let no one interfere with her path, even be it herself.

_That's right. That is the way I want it to be. No remorse and the word guilt shall not be mine to utter._

After all she was to become a puppeteer…

_And the puppeteer need not display any emotions – her performance would be currency which would jerk the audience to the truth or tragedy._

Secrets.

That was the name of her play, the crux of her finale. The rook was but the first and others would follow without her prompting. Marionettes danced to its masters bidding without cue, nor question. It would even jump into fire for its master.

_Rook and the Blood Sacrifice._

_Secrets and secrets… Truth and Secret…_

_I crave them … NEED THEM!_

_This is a dead world lolling in decay, with laces and glittering magic to cover the Truth! A cloak to hide the secrets..._

_The desire! All of those secrets! All of them … I … I need them all … The Blood Sacrifice, Aria Ritual, The triple gates of Melanai, the forbidden glyphs of Remanta, and their Masters … the Forbidden Ones. And so much more… _

_I know it all! I know what this world denies! Lies and more lies! Cloaks to smother the secrets…_

No … not a cloak, but an ersatz Charter web.

_Order?! The Charter was to order magic that ran amok? _

_Ah …the sweet secrets! The magnificence of deceit cleverly wrought... _

_Hahah_ … _Marvelous! _

_The Charter is a windlass holding the chains of bondage for a realm forced to swim in a space that will never be free … but to keep on shedding tears of blood, and bury bodies with fettered souls._

_And through it all, through the passage of endless time … no one ever the wiser, no one to look past the shadows! None! None of the ranks upon ranks of Royal Blood - bearers of the Flame! _

Not even fit to light the torch!

_The Clayr … heh … what truth can they envision … when they would willingly trap themselves in a cage? The cold Clayr, sitting frigid in their prisons of ice, their visions chained by arrogance. Unwilling to break free. _

Ah…! But the Clayr did See the secrets.

_Oh Princesses of Ice, when will you strike I wonder …_

_And the Abhorsen's…_

She could feel a ghost of amusement touching her lips, caressing her with a faint kiss.

Abhorsen - Keys - heralds of the truth. Eternally imbibed in our own troubles.

Entombed inside graves of our making … useless, to lie decaying in false delusions.

_And we allow ourselves to grovel at the mercy of such infirmities … like a sick old maid … lying in her death throes! All of us … letting Honour, bitter Love, and … ha … frail Trust, cloud the eyes of reason and stem the questions of truth. _

_WHY?! _

_We were Abhorsen! WE WERE ABHORSEN! _

_The ones holding the keys… so many of us … so many before me, and none of you … even once thought to ask why?! WHY?! JUST, a simple WHY!_

Afraid were you? Fragile your mind was it? Too caught up in your petty troubles were you? _To even ask - 'why'?_

_A query so utterly simple! _

Why is Death not an instant darkness? Why was death such a long path?! Why does the blight of Necromancy exist, regardless of all cleansing?! WHY?! WHY?!

A DAMNED 'WHY'?

_A REFUSAL! A REFUSAL! Curse you! Curse you all!_

_Curse you that I should have inherited your blood! Curse you SEVENTH!_

_I HATE YOUR LOATHFUL LEGACY! I loathe this frail body! ANOTHER REMINDER OF YOUR CRUEL INJUSTICE!_

_Corrupted… and defiled…_

_DEFILED …CORRUPTED! CORRUPTED, YOU HEAR?!_

… _ahnnnnnn … broken…!_

_The Keys … corrupted, rusted to shivering pieces of silver. Useless for unlocking, undoing …_

_The Abhorsen … hahaha! Defenders … of Living from the Dead? Charged with putting the Dead back to rest?_

_FOOLS!_

_CAN'T YOU EVEN FEEL IT? The misery, the pain of the Dead? Have you never wondered why the Dead __**could**__ be allowed back? Their ends should be Eternal! They've paid their homage and blood to the torture of this world, and yet they are _allowed _to be brought back?!_

And then after their use, wretched and broken by the filth that are necromancers, they are sent screaming back to eternal bondage and torture!

And … how you ask? Through the paean sung by your own bells! Fools! Through the dirge you ring after every swing of a Bell.

What … you thought the Dead that were brought back, are in peace after you have _sent_ them? Sent them past the Ninth gate?

_And you dare to call yourself an Abhorsen! Dare to call yourself the Guardian! You all were, and still are naught but the shattered images of the Truth! Pale imitation of the Power that might have been the strongest… had it not been the weakness residing in you all!_

_A Truth! LOOK AT THE TRUTH! Deny the pretense of a Guardian!_

_The Book of the Dead … HAH! An apocrypha filled with hidden lies and false benedictions. 'Only an unsullied Charter mage could close the Book of the Dead!' HAHAHA! _

_A moth-eaten book and bells lined with the Charter. Replacing a sword for a stick, a dagger for kitchen knife!_

_Impotent as insects to be crushed underneath the boot heel! _

_Am I the only one who realizes this…?! Am I the only one who can see the truth glossed over by millennia of dust and soil? Am I … the only one to be cursed with this vision - knowing all whom we mislead, all of those we doomed, and then cringe with the certainty it had been our fault. The fault of us - the Keys?_

_WHY?!_

_Why must I suffer the guilt of others, suffer the fires of betrayals and lies committed by vague blank faces? DAMN YOU DOG! _

…

Ah! Wonderful!

She couldn't feel it. No tears, no anguish. Not even a cringe of her cold heart at its name.

_Ashes! All that would see her beg was ashes!_

_Hahaha!_

_I burned it all to ashes! I watched them twist and shrivel as I set fire to all such pains, such hurts that would slight me, hound me into that whimpering thing I detest! _

_ALL ASHES!_

…

_Except … maybe … one fear..._

I cannot feel pain, cannot feel the warmth of the summer skies and the chill of the morning baths. _A chrysalis in its crystalline cocoon._ All I fear is that I'll break. That this pathetic body of mine cannot contain my need!

Just one fear …

_What would you say to that fear? Would you console me? Or better yet … heh. Bite me and make me Remember? _

_Hahhahaha! I know who you are, better than even you can remember._

_There was a Remembrancer who once remembered you, and then Forgot you…_

_Isn't it ironic that when you alone know all, you become the inevitable false Prophetess? To shout out all the Truths and hear your cries fall upon deaf echoing rocks?_

_Would a prophetess cry then? To acknowledge the fact that none would heed her words?_

_No. No tears shall ever burn on these cheeks of mine again._

_And soon I will incinerate this last vestige of honour… twisted HONOUR … A chain that forces me to perform one last duty…_

To clear a path of darkness and horror, to grapple out a road full of the bloodied barbs of lies… for a lone beloved…

_Beloved…_

…

…

For a _beloved_ sister to follow unhindered… unhurt.

_For … Sabriel. _

_Only for you will I bleed and bear the wounds, so that you alone can aspire and attain the heights of a True Abhorsen. Stand on a peak that none of the others have reached. So that you can see the world clean and bring glory to this corrupted line of ours - the Keys. Only for you … will I be able to do this…_

_However…_

_Not without a price. Not without a price._

_I **will** have my descent to Oblivion._

_The horrid path for the Truth maybe cleared with my blood, but I will have my Oblivion at the end … and the price will come dear. But I will have it. And no one, no futile flare of a sun-kissed memory will dissuade me this time when I begin my last journey into the deepest, darkest and everlasting nights._

A darkness so deep that it would smother thought and memory. I wait to embrace it!

"_Darkest, darkest of nights will embrace me and hold me to its bosom as a waif of shame and hurt…"_

_Hahaha_ … _where have I heard that before?_

…

…

_Ah yes … the Song of Culamn. It has been so long since I've read a play …_

_The great and tragic loss of Culamn._ _The Hero of the Kingdom, the greatest of the Royal Kings and warrior supreme. He who lost his soul to a darker art than his noble skill. Until he was but a Shadow that preyed upon the very people he once protected._

_Amusing irony. _

_Much like this silver rook … still mute and wary, awaiting to be filled with what it would never feel nor comprehend … never conceive the nature of its loss. _

_The first of thirteen keys to unlock doors imprisoning Truth … To rip asunder the curtain of lies. _

_And when that was done …_

_Open my own door to Oblivion._

A key … that was all it ever would be. It would serve a purpose that she crafted to it.

_A being of purest silver with undeterred purpose … a force unlike ever seen on this world. And when I unleash it … this pale world will tremble in its glorious, terrible awakening. Its glowing wings will blind out the Sun and diminish the incessant whine of the Charter._

_Do I feel pride? Pride in being able to create something so powerful and free - unblemished by the seeds of this world?_

_No._

Pride was for the weak. This was only the first of her Forbidden. And the weakest. Soon … there would be others. Others far more powerful, stronger … and stranger. Her constructs. Born of Secrets, that would draw others and in doing so they would serve her purpose. They may not know it, but they would all serve her and her cause. All of them.

_The Shining First is ready for its flight. And now … the Darkest Second will come unto to me. I have set it into motion. There is only one path. Only one path that I tread and only one end I will fall into._

_Come fire, come light, and bring forth Dawn with the scum of the Night. I am waiting._

* * *

Far, far away from the High Palace, along the torrential fork of the raging river Ratterlin, spread a small dense area of wild woods known as Vivaedi - a name to be shivered upon by the sparse few who thought they knew all about it, and then to many more it was just a word of a mystery shrouded by myth. A few gently rolling miles east of the swollen settlement of Yanyl, it was a natural barrier to the fast flowing river behind it, an area very studiously avoided by the cautious inhabitants living nearby. 

How the stories about dark groves rearing out of soft green earth had risen, few knew. But in times of the past, it was either a fool or worse, who would willingly travel into the woods knowing about the Dead that frequently infested such places. And, more than a few elders had claimed by the fireplace at a local tavern - clinically sipping their tankard of ale - that the Masters of the Dead themselves lurked around such places of refuge. Of course, similar tales could often be heard in the Laughing Barrel and even more could be eavesdropped upon in its more … private bedchambers, where intrigue of the daily always seemed to take place; more often than not however, such stories were more tales than any truths.

However, the elders would never chuckle when someone actually questioned their verity. They would just nod with a grim smile, look condescendingly down at the disbeliever and then proceed to ignore them for the rest of the night.

Regardless, whether the tavern and the local stories were Myths or facts, even a complete stranger could very easily see why the dense area of forest was avoided so religiously.

When they could sneak past the Charter mages and the guards posted in the vicinity, that is. Spreading out from Yanyl, a lush verdant expanse of grassy field expanded out in all directions, sprinkled with the vibrant colours of wild flowers, busy with little bees going about their daily routines. The beauty of the green field continued to sweep out with its deep late spring tones … until a sudden, shocking halt just when the first rumbles of the raging Ratterlin could be heard in the distance. And there ended …beauty.

Rearing up abruptly, ugly and twisted, a great mass of gnarled rotten tree trunks jutted up obscenely into the pale sky above. A thick miasma of dread and chilling sickness hung around in the tatters of life that had been once rich, and now lay listless, spiked up by the rotting yet cruelly jutting trees. Sunlight that shone so cheerfully upon the grassy knolls ahead of it, seemed to be afraid to even lay its beams upon the dying foliage, and the shadows slunk around even more, making the whole scene one ghoulish nightmare.

A nightmare painted by the mind of the most horribly twisted artist that had ever existed, in the throes of some violent, demented surge of creation.

Except this was only very real.

The green of the field seemed to have daringly crept closer to that black decaying expanse, when it suddenly stopped, struck with some sort of a disease that rotted out the life out the very grass, leaving it dry, withered and completely wasted. In fact, it seemed that the blight was grappling with some unseen force to dominate over the life of the green fields farther down; reaching out now and then with cracks of dead grass, spread like crooked fingers, violating the thriving life of the field. It was a fight to see which would dominate - Life or Decay - a battle that remained most thankfully to the inhabitants, around the edges of the disgusting tangle of branches and deformed trees - a living, decaying monolith of mockery and shame to nature.

And since no one, no matter how foolhardy, ever came to several hundred feet of this distinct border, the question of what exactly that resided within these cursed woods became a tasty topic for the ever imaginative human mind. But little did the humans know how right they were in their passing fantasies, or how wrong they were in their unreasoned dread.

And left alone and abandoned, the forest lay decaying and rotting. Blending into the shadows of mystery as the years, days and nights passed over it carelessly.

It lay forgotten, ignored.

Until this night, when something decidedly wrong strode about deep within the woods, treading the rotten vegetation inside as carefully and knowingly as if it was home to it. If the exterior looked forbidding, then the inside was ever more daunting. Noxious fumes of swamp mires and decaying verdure settled in the air, clinging and heavy.

Yet a hooded figure traversed through the tangled path without noticeable discomfort or disturbing even the driest twig or leaf – an unnatural occurrence, since anything solid passing through would undoubtedly have created much noise, no matter how skilled that person was in wood lore. However, knowing wood lore assumed the intruder was human.

Such was far from the case.

Wind or any sort of freshening air draft rarely blew through, and decades of rotten weeds, sludge of decaying vegetation gave rise to poisonous fumes through which no human could pass through, let alone stand inside of. None of this bothered the black cloaked figure though, who glided over to one peculiar clearing in the middle of the swamp – a clearing of bleached white gray stone poking up from the black mass of the forests floor.

In an irritated motion the figure twisted to look behind him, staring into the gloom expectantly as if awaiting someone or something. For a long moment that stretched ominously silent, the dark hood stared back. Finally, with a grunt of dissatisfaction he turned around, the noise being a hollow one, as if sounding from deep within a well.

_I wonder how many will have sensed this night … and what it portends? How many will dare to come crawling out of their holes to face this night?_

_Such a night …was … so … familiar, yet so alien at the same time. I can't place it … but it's there … just beyond …_

A night pregnant with riddles to which answers seemed not to exist … never had he seen it so full … so bursting of secrets, anxious to spew them all - deadly in the morning - as if unable to hold back anymore.

He shook his head in wonder, such a night this was … redolent of Power, the air perfect for their spells and commands to imprison the Dead, make them slaves and then drive them into their enemies.

To serve their dark masters. The last of the Necromancers.

That is … if they could. Nights such as this were rare nowadays … very rare.

_Which itself bears asking the question…Where and how did this come to be? I should have sensed it coming a long time before, should have been able to tell … yet I … sensed … I sensed nothing at all until now._

_Until now …when I heard this call…_

Slipping out his tongue past unnaturally dry lips he tasted the air, a deep frown resulting that was promptly lost under the heavy drapes of a black hooded cloak. The cloak was his pride and joy - it protected him from the latent ravages of Death, and the inherent savagery of Life … Life now filled with the cursed Charter. Awoken and re-vitalized. Every pulse of its flow ripped through him and the torment never ended.

But … he mused wryly, he had cast off the pain very early and he could bear it with only slight discomfort, much to the annoyance of the petty trouble makers within their own kind.

_It tasted … like metal, Blood … calling, screaming…_

The taste was strange … it wasn't the hateful Charter, nor was it the delicious call of Free magic. Free magic was the only thing that could've brought him out this night to endure the torments of the world. Or could it be … he snapped his head back up to look at the gloomy obscurity of the night laid foliage, swallowing yet again the taste on his lips … then feeling his forehead crinkle in pain as the frown returned.

He didn't like the sweet tang in the flavour. And it was … spiced with some thing very bitter…

_Strange. _It could _indeed_ be Free magic - although certain layers of its depth felt disturbingly different. He couldn't … as much as it galled him to admit it … he couldn't identify what it was, only make out the daring challenge. The challenge itself was a strange one … or perhaps challenge was the wrong word - maybe temptation was closer.

But oh yes, the taste of it had been quite unlike, _quite _unlike anything he had ever felt before.

Nothing like when he had chanted alongside his former Masters, or even at the time of their true one Source, the Destroyer.

His lips curled slightly without him even noticing, but just barely aware of it. _Their Masters? His master? Hah!_

_If the Master was so powerful where was he now? Lying bound up in some cairn heavily protected by the detested Charter… and in more ways than one it was what he had deserved._

Because of their _Master_, because of their bowed heads … so much of their physical bodies lay rotting. Aching with a horrible sense of decay inside - and why? Answer - the Master's excessive drawing … that had leeched dry their essence of Life, leaving this painful shell behind to endure the rigors of the daily world. The corruption that had been infesting the body of their Master had in turn infected theirs, and now … little by little, like faint trickles of a drying stream, their reign as the Living Masters of the Dead were drawing to an end. Soon they would be mere Ghouls or Shades, or something akin to those pitiable souls - souls without bodies and less purpose.

_How pitiful… How low we have sunk. Once we were feared by the most renowned Charter mages, and could daunt any of the Blood, and now … we have barely enough power and strength to construct a weak Mordicant, and pray, pray hard, that we are not it's first prey. Not that anyone would try to construct one, even a Fourth Level Mordicant … they were … all too weak._

_And why?_

_Because of the failures of their previous 'Masters'! _

_HAH!_

_'Masters'!_

_I cannot believe I bowed my legs to them! Rotten Bastards who thought they could best the filthy Abhorsen! Once … only once I wish I could have seen Master Rogir scream in anguish as he cavorted around, all the while being bound by the Abhorsen! A feast of satisfaction … from seeing him run amok like that._

_Not to mention the desert - the screams of helpless anguish from the Bastard King as his beloved lay squirming around the sword that impaled her to the ground. Skewered down by her own sword. Bleeding, splashing out her warm, rich blood all over the floor … ahhhhh!_

How he missed those days of glory and pain! He would give anything to once again get those days back … and he had. The net result - the thing he called his body. It was more artifice then flesh, mere tendon and muscle threaded by the now fading power of Free Magic. Those knots and bindings … they were loosening, fading … and he had many to blame it on. Many, he wished he could wreak his vengeance upon.

_Their…'Masters'…_

His lips curled up in derision once more and this time he winced as a sudden painful twinge ripped up the left side of his face, the pain being enough to wrench his mind from the ghosts of the past. Quickly he let his remaining active muscles go slack, fearful that they too would stretch to a point of no return - to lie there frozen, useless … just like so many other parts of his body.

_I am nothing … a mere sliver of what I had been…_

It didn't matter now … it didn't merit thinking about anyway. Orannis was gone and once again they were all alone, so that the reins of future for their kind were left for him …or …

…_Or…_

He grimaced.

This time it was his stomach…

The burning sensation in his stomach forced him to double over, struggling against it for a long moment - straining with his might to be master of this new pain … but failing once again. Falling too short in his efforts to overcome the feel of ice impaling his lower abdomen.

…_or…_

_I alone hold the whips of doom in each hand…!_

Each such spasm grew worse in its intensity… and he didn't know why! _Another _thing that galled him to admit. Everyday, every moment, another artifice of his body froze and ever so slowly he was being reduced to a creaking, grimacing puppet.

Well, at least … he knew one thing for certain. He smirked painfully, regretting the motion as soon as he had begun it.

The … only … certain thing … was that … there would come one night, one moment when he could no longer straighten from such a pain and then … his two hundred years or so in Life and mingling with Death would be at an end.

_Will I let that be the end … or will I seek to suck the Life out of the Living like parasitic Ghouls? How low I have sunk … to ponder the thoughts of my subordinates in their misery…_

…

_I am NOT like them! They are all impotent! Frail!_

_I WILL BE THE MASTER! _

_I will master this pain, just as I have borne so many others! I will…even if … this … this … is the worst I've faced so far!_

Control! He had to maintain it … or … all his struggles … his labours… his plans… were in VAIN!

_And … the mystery drifting on the air tonight, the helping hand of chance, or fate - whichever … I would be forsaking it if I lie in defeat to my pain!_

That strange power flowing around him … so comforting in its rhythm and beat… he would demean it by sitting down in defeat… No!

_I refuse!_

…

Seconds stretched agonizingly slowly into minutes and then after a long choking moment, he straightened up with a heartfelt sigh, this time not feeling the debilitating cramp in his stomach that caused tiny fires in his mouth to rage.

It was gone … the surge … and he had mastered it.

Yet, he felt … tired … dreadfully tired … not invigorated after such a victory. At least there wasn't pain … for now.

_Naturally…_

_But still … I beat it, exposed as I am now without sufficient protection against this world!_

Weary as he was a slight feeling of pleasure made its way up to brush away the smell and taste of ashes in his mouth. It was not a feeling he felt so often these days.

And then he knew where it had come from … that last extra bit of strength and power. That last bit of conviction in his defiance.

The air that should have been filled with swamp gases, instead congealed into strange tatters of mist that clustered all around him. Entwining him with ragged arms…

_Boosted my strength and power…and conviction! Am I just imagining this?_

_Mysterious indeed…_ Such was the tang he had tasted - spicy with Power and vigour, yet sweet with its tingling intimacy. Not like the raw Power raging around the Destroyer or less so in Master Hedge, but far, far subtle … and far more complex. And if he admitted to himself and looked closer at the thickening mist, he was more than a little fascinated by the constantly shining, wreathing and untangling … Marks? He didn't know if he could call it that as they were completely alien in nature, sometimes hiding on the delicate eddies of floating Power and at times time visibly shimmering inside the Mist.

_I have never sensed such Marks or patterns or whatever they are… I cannot sense any runes that we use in our summoning of such mists … if we ever _could _have summoned such a one! _

_Master Kerrigor would have been jealous!_

In fact … he was fast falling into obsession with the Power lurking within the obscure haze, which had now spread to the rotten, broken trees surrounding the clearing.

Disturbed, he gazed for a long moment at the stardust twinkle of strange marks, winking on and off at seemingly free will.

The intricacy and skill was blatantly obvious in the making of such a Mist, which was more than a cause for caution. _Such skills often bespoke of a mind with a gift for subtlety and masterful deception. Mists were tools of lies and intrigues – and always reflected the mind that had the capacity to create it. _And the powerful energy that it was endowed with … he did not even want to think of the implications.

Where had this originated? And more importantly … who had such skill to create something like this? Or even more importantly, who _ever_ had such skill in their dwindling ranks? Very clearly it had come from long ways - he could tell by tasting it … and he didn't dare taste it again.

_Disturbing questions…_

_But the Power in it…it aided me. I cannot deny that!_

It was a calling of sorts, he came to a conclusion. A signal of some sort… Maybe he _should_ perform more than a cursory inspection of the now rapidly swirling fog, the stardust twinkling like ceramic clay moulds in a potter's rapidly spinning wheel.

_Swirling?!_

_When did it…?! _…_What? It should have blown farther away by now!_

Startled, he looked around to confirm a deep, dreadful suspicion. And sure enough it was right.

A non-existent wind was blowing the mist about in circles around the clearing, hazy spiraling arms extending out of the main body, sucking the dry dirt from ravaged grounds.

When he made the decision to venture out this night, he had done so in sensing a clarion call that had blared through Death and paths to Life that every Necromancer had crafted for their individual comforts and tastes.

_The Call … that disturbance … it … it had ripped asunder the very boundaries of Death and rules…! _

_Paths to Life from Death cannot be discovered so simply! It would take months for myself to discern a colleagues Gateways to Death, and with ample luck! Who had such power now? Could Master Hedge have done the same? _

_And that was not all… _

The Call had reeked of pain and agony, but dragged with it an illusive … scent. He could not define what he had sensed, except that the scent smelled sweet and strident, mocking … yet strangely enticing. It was completely out of place in the frigid drafts of Death and the hopelessness in that Call.

_Why did I not notice earlier?!_

_The Mist was the same! Whatever I sensed behind the Call is also inside the Mist!_

_Co-incidence? I think not!_

He shivered suddenly, and then stopped - astounded by that motion. He couldn't remember the last time he had such a reaction! Oh … he had felt awe certainly, even respect and fear in the Destroyer's Awakening or in the invocation of one of Master Kerrigor's dreaded spells. However, never had he shivered nor trembled.

And it wasn't the cold that was affecting him like this … it was ... some thing … very foreboding.

At a subconscious level, he had come here thinking of the possibility that some Free Magic creature, or some cast off bit of Free Magic spell from their Source was the cause of disturbance … after all the call had seemed like such. Thinking to draw whatever had appeared in these woods into their service - as the remaining ilk of Free Magic could easily be persuaded to _share _their energies with their own dying resources - he had come very readily.

They had been desperate…

In desperation he found the Mist … that seemed to have been patiently waiting for something, or maybe someone.

_I have been desperate. Now … I am not even sure we should have called the meeting here at this clearing! Too much of a co-incidence!_

_That scream – was that some sort of sacrifice? A sacrifice for the creation of this fog, thick with promised power for us to draw upon? But … for what cause? Who would expend so much to send a Mist that clearly wants to be in the same place as we would have been? _

_If not for our need … I would … I would be fleeing by now… _

_Pitiful …But …still…_

_It did aid me… I did draw upon it, if unconsciously and it responded without hesitation._

_This was what I had been searching for … craving for…_

_This could be the source of energy we need to strike back at our enemies, and if my senses are not failing, there is enough of it here to last a long time. A very long time! The only thing left is to somehow store it…And we need to do it soon._

_Yes … that was reason enough for their meeting! _

_First to discuss this Calling, and then to wheedle out what to do with our fast depleting strength in Free Magic…_

To discuss their control of Free Magic, which had been withering away, almost … as if a dam had been secretly erected to contain the rage and growl of the Source - holding it just behind the surface, but not letting it burst free. And … they could but gain sparse access to the once raging torrent of Power, succeeding only when they tried their hardest. The dam had risen so suddenly … so awful suddenly… surely frightening.

It was the one thing that had stopped them from launching a full frontal assault against their most hated enemies - the harridan bitch that called herself the Abhorsen!

_Curse her to the deepest pit in Death, and may she rot there for eternity! _

He would do it himself, if he still had the power to do so. Would have loved to see that woman, Sabriel - beheaded, and made to serve him! And along with her husband … that bastard Prince.

How he hated those usurpers!

_How I loathe them! I can barely tolerate their STINK floating around this world! I would forfeit half of my remaining body to see you spit on Umbraes Valava, my shadow blade._

_Alas, those thoughts are only dreams … I could never take the challenge. _

_How I would love to do it … hear their screams as they died knowing they would be serving their enemies in bondage for eternity … such a pleasure …yet sadly denied. I can however, wait… wait for a long time to hear that Bitch scream in pain …_

She had taken away all that had ever mattered to him. His mastery over the Dead, his dominion in Life. She had taken it all away! Death everyday!

_Bitch, you took it all away … little by little… but you did! And I will do the same, and I have waited for it a long time! Revenge and pain will be my tools, but I will taste even your tears in time! I have sworn it! Sworn to make use of the first opportunity to bring down the Abhorsens once and for all!_

_That time is now … and the 'means' to do so …! I possess it now… hanging and wreathing over my head._

_Just wait, oh Queen … I am coming for you!_

Abruptly, he shifted around to face the middle of the dusty clearing – made more barren by its contribution to the surging, expanding fog. Stepping lightly away from the dirt, he moved forward into a patch of dry grass, sticky moss and other invasive weed cluttering around broken rubble - all doing their best to reach out and grasp his ankles. But … the moment after the first tentative brush, everything shrunk back - blackened and burnt as if by intense heat. His cloak covered any sound of his measured tread … if there even was any.

The pale, ghostly glow of a hidden moon spread around, reflecting off in a sickly yellowish green gleam, hiding the unknown in a bevy of resident shadow wraiths - their eyes a gleaming nightmare in the darkness. None of the wraiths bothered him in the least, neither did the ghouls who haunted this part of the nightmare's web. They were the slavers of these woods, and as strong as they might have been, they knew a Master when they could sense one.

Still staring east, he could barely make out the muffled sounds of the raging waters of Ratterlin even with his enhanced hearing.

_Not that I could challenge Sabriel alone… that would be foolish._

His mind still dwelling on the fantasy, a hidden smile twisted gruesomely as he strode further into the circle.

_She was far too strong in the Arts, and especially in his weakened form it would take Saraneth less than a minimal effort to send his cringing form beyond the Ninth Gate._

He scowled darkly - the smile disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. He had lost too much to the demands of using his Powers.

_He should have attacked them earlier, when they were still recovering from their wounds after their assault on the Destroyer. Perhaps he could have dealt with them there and then…_

_Except for that barrier, that … that dastardly Dam that held their power in check!_

He stopped just in front of a lone, gaunt and grotesquely bent tree, deformed as if from pains and cramps that were too horrible to describe. He moved up one black draped arm, stretching it out in front of him … and then plunging it into his shadowed hood. Concentrating on the cold pressure of six iron digits on his face, he quested for the feel of others that had promised to be here. Not that they were late, but he merely wanted to test something.

And sure enough, he could not do it.

The bitter bile of defeat tinted his mouth … but he didn't let off his concentration yet.

The result was expected anyway. One more test still remained, and this one was the most important. The spell he was concentrating upon was a very minute one, linked to the primal energies of each of their kind who were bonded eternally to the burning, acidic flame of Free Magic. Through the spell he could easily locate any of their own. Yet, sadly, even that little spell he couldn't accomplish when he had to rely on his own resources.

_How_ _pitiful…_

_However…_

If … if he could _just_ draw upon that Mist of twisting unknown Power… all those roiling, rearranging patterns … so slow moving … constantly …hypnotic even…

_Yes! YES!_

With a jolt that surprised and filled him with an indescribable delight - for the first time in a long time - he felt a torrent of the old strength come surging back to his limbs and muscles. Even more importantly, to the clenched throat that moments earlier couldn't utter the words to loose the locating spell. The raging, howling torrent burst through the proverbial dam and parted the cramp in his throat, loosening and coating it with the soothing currents of Power. Like greased lightning, a shower of sparks blew out from within the dark hood, revealing for a brief moment a twisted mask of steel, glaring metallic in the blue white light.

Too sharp, too sickly sweet to be Free Magic … but the energy and Power that filled him … it thrilled his flesh, stirred his very blood!

_Lords of Death, but it was exhilarating! _

_I have been denied a pleasure such as this for too long!_

_The fierce response of dead nerves springing back to life again … knitting back these stiff muscles, imbedding them with vigour of unholy strength! _

_I can feel it! I can reach fully into the well of Free Magic again, and so much more than ever before! Like never before!_

It was like spiced wine that burned and coursed through him, sending shivers of delight across his suddenly alive skin. He even delighted in the prickly pain of lightning that jolted, oozed out of his body. Blazing blue-white, they ran across his skin, under his skin - skin that now burned with the rekindled flames of Free Magic, the dark fires of his darker soul.

Dripping red molten of spite and shining black with malice.

Throwing his head back he laughed - a terrible, metallic scream of vicious glory and exultation.

_HAHAHAHAHA! I AM MYSELF AGAIN! ME! ME! ME! _

_And NOW… I AM SO MUCH MORE!_

He was whole once again! And stronger than _ever_ before! He could sense all of the weaker Masters quivering in fear far away, could feel the Rune Masters on their way to the clearing! He didn't even need to speak the Word of power, he just needed to stretch out with his mind and he could bend all of them to his will, and the urge was nigh impossible to resist!

He could do it! Do something that not even _Kerrigor_ had been able to accomplish at his peak strength!

And the Dead…! Oh yes… He sensed them all around … could smell, taste the rank odour of countless rotting bodies, lying buried underneath the black loam, awaiting his command to be chained to his purpose.

One thought … and he reached them all.

Encompassed their weak minds and will, and with delight that escaped from his lips as a hiss of pleasure, he found that he had no limits at all.

None whatsoever.

Where, before he could exercise his control over the Dead hands, the Greater Mordicants, and the Greater Dead creatures with only the most powerful of incantations and the raw power of Saraneth gathered from Death, now … now he just had to _think _and he could bend them all to his will.

_So powerful … so … so much Strength!_

The Dead had all felt and then acquiesced to his power, even those he had reached across the border of Death …

They had all bowed to him … So many, so many ready to serve him, awaiting him eagerly when he would free them into the world.

Oh, he did not have control over the Sixth and Seventh precinct's Greater Dead and their Fallen Kin, nor the Undead Ghoul-mages and their slippery cousins of Free Magic fell creatures… But he would soon. He just had to draw upon the awesome well of Power that had been literally thrust at him.

_This … this Power … I must have more of it. I MUST! It truly is our … MY salvation. I must seek out where it came from…_

_Something ancient the smell is redolent of …yes! I can feel it now! All my senses have been restored … and my strength…_

_My strength is…_

Stooping down, he half knelt on the dry ground staring at it intently for seconds. Solid rock - marred by jutting and invasive moss that had already decayed and now sprawled listless. For the first time, he drew back the night black material of his cloak, revealing an arm that dripped white hot flames, the rotten vegetation sizzling ozone each time a flaming globule splattered down. He set the glowing white palm on the dank ground, repulsive and claw-like with the extra digit twisting askew the hand. There it crackled with white lighting, twisting columns of smoke drifting up from underneath that dreadful palm.

He sat still for another long moment, watching the crumbling stones begin to smoke and glow molten red in the extreme heat. Cocking his head slightly to the side, he sniffed and stretched forth a grim smile as he felt the rush of the six Masters, _Rune Masters_ … he amended with another smirk. All anxious to be present, as they were sure to have heard and felt his swell of power.

Oh … they were in for a surprise…! He would show them his power, his mastery and his newfound energy, that could … that could …

Did he believe it?

_Dare I believe it? Yes! YES! I felt Master Hedge's power before!_

His mastery now …

He returned his gaze back to the molten puddle that surrounded his hand, a miasma of noxious fumes wreathing around him - ghostlike, touching and fluttering away.

His mastery over the Power could daunt even Master Hedge!

Oh yes, a surprise awaited them all, all of them …

And then…

And then they would all bow before him! Dipping his head, but keeping a ready contact on the close presence of the Six, he concentrated on his naked hand - a deep pulsation resulted from within, spitting out great gouts of blood red flames, finally glowing to an incandescent white.

_Have to touch all the Dead … and their threads to the edge of Life … near Death. No great task … they are clear to me. I can tell distinguish them all … can sense even the slightest, weakest threads. _

_I will bring you all out! You will be shackled to my will … be my invincible dogs of war, and take the battle to a level never before seen in this world! Hedge's Horde and Chlorr's Dead will pale in comparison to mine! All the Dead will serve me, first the ones beneath me … and then those of the greatest Dead and the oldest hiding in Death! ALL!_

_But first … the ones beneath me…_

A flicker …

_Four of the Six have arrived…_

He felt the utter bewilderment and astonishment of the four who had just arrived, stepping into the dry clearing. Felt their fear and awe as they stared at the huge golden, molten pool underneath him, and his crouched floating form shrouded by films of mist.

He could feel their awe of him … and he felt the taste of their amazement just when they discovered the Mist. But even more than that … he sensed…

Fear.

He relished their palpable fear of him, could smell it pouring out of every remaining pore in their bodies, their awe and dread rolling off in waves - all fermented fumes of saccharine sweetness, _absolutely invigorating emotions_, that fueled his throbbing and burning body to the fullest. He was their one Master. And they knew it.

_I will be a Master unlike all the fools before me. You will bow not just with your body, but with your Blood and Soul. The ones before me were too weak, too lax. You will all serve me, but serve me bound and broken._

_And I will be…_

With the ease that once again surprised him, he ripped aside the border of Death not even feeling the chill that usually rose to accompany him crossing beyond. With his other hand he freed the leather strap that harnessed the scalding touch of a newly revitalized Saraneth, bristling to sound its brazen call. The bandolier slipped back into the inky dark cloak.

_The Six are all here now …all of them struck frozen with fear at what they are witnessing … as they well should. All the world would! I will be the Master of all the Dead! _

_THE MASTER OF ALL!_

_**ALL OF YOU WILL BOW TO ME!**_

The blast of a thundering shockwave echoed outwards from his incandescent palm, and everything disappeared in a mess of howling smoke and blistering energy that ripped out great chunks of the dry ground, tossing them awry into a suddenly screaming wind. Stones glowing like brilliant stars and molten shards of dripping rock swarmed out from around him, streaking, screaming to smash everything in their line of fire, leaving behind trails of red fire that exploded anew with blinding sparks, burning gaping smoking holes into the ground.

The devastating shock sheared and cleaved asunder the woods sending violent tremors throughout, the ominous cracks and grunts of the earth heard even above the shrieking cacophony of his power – tongues of blue lightning whipping around his body.

A raging inferno that dumfounded and addled the minds of those watching with its sheer violence and destruction…

And then the Six heard it.

Then the Six clearly felt for the first time, the depth of raw Power held in the hidden hands of their Master. Then the Six felt the harsh, brutal call of Saraneth, chaining the minds of the Dead they could not see but suddenly feel with disconcerting clarity.

Awed by the enormity of what they had witnessed, the Six, in unison, bowed down before the shimmering stooped figure, ensconced in the crackle of lightning that even still raged around.

The Six paid him homage. Paid their Master homage.

An ominous silence had fallen, as if a void had sucked out the terrible noise of destruction, and left them with the emptiness of desolation. But none dared to look up and view the ravaged earth they felt sure they would see. None dared. All of them lay with their foreheads touching the quivering ground.

Out of the empty dark night, out of the muffled silences of hurt, came the deep guttural moans of the Dead. First it was one, then ten, soon hundred others joined the dirge that each of the six felt in their spines, spiking their bodies with a shiver they didn't understand or comprehend. More and more joined the discordant paean, their wails of anguish congealing into a song of nightmare.

Never before had they ever heard this, felt this! The Dead seemed … seemed to be all around them, and their ranks never ended! Every creak of their rotting joints proclaimed the gagging stench from long before. The Six still kneeled, thunderstruck by the amount of Dead that had been summoned here, by … just one ring of Saraneth!

Gone was the metallic tang of Free Magic that burned with fire, gone were the endless rituals to bind the Dead to their service. They had seen their Master break asunder the graves of Earth, and then shackle the countless Dead still coming to surround them, their threnody of pain – a heralding chant for their Master.

Just one toll of Saraneth… All this with one peal!

Curiously, as suddenly as it had all begun, the Dead felt silent again. Their voices stilled by invisible garrotes, only the vast symphony of discordant creaks and rattling of old bones was heard, echoing in the reverent silence as their Master stood slowly up from the smoking crater that had once been the ground of a forest clearing. Now just a spiritless drab spot of grey.

_Now…I almost have the Army I desired. I can feel the Mist … and its origins… This power does not leave me … _

_I shall have my revenge soon! But not before I have assembled a force that cannot be repelled! And the Mist will aid me, just as it has … This is only but a prelude!_

Glancing down at the still prostrate Six, his lips curled in a sneer. They were less than redundant, as he had just proven that their chants, casting of spells and runes were merely a show. This Power … was … endless! There were no limits to what he could do now! None!

The skills and the strength of the Six were of … no more use to him.

Withdrawing his still sizzling, painfully effulgent palm back into his cloak, he looked past them - their worth less than refuse. Their awe would soon change to spite and jealousy and then they would serve no more, and instead be only a thorn at his side. One thing he had learned early was that servants were more trouble than their worth. Better yet to have slaves who hadn't will, but only a leash that he could tug upon.

Squinting slightly, his newly acquired vision let him see the throngs of Dead that stood at attention, awaiting his instructions so that they could shamble onto their path of mindless, rabid destruction. He could not allow that. This legion had a special purpose, and it was to serve as the distraction he needed to find out more about this Mist of Power. Random mass slaughters would serve to populate his army, but mass destruction attracted too much attention. Far better to be stealthy, until came the time when they need not sneak at all.

Besides … those that were dead paid no toll, nor tribute.

And when he ruled over all others, he would need those who remained alive for other purposes. The Dead needed sustenance and those who held onto Life would suit that purpose perfectly.

He hated waste, and as he glanced back at the Six still kneeling down his hand moved to touch Belgaer and Saraneth once more.

The Six would serve him, far better as slaves.

His voice chill, and made harsh by the roiling energy in his throat, he lifted his gaze away from them to the Dead.

"**You should rise. I have no time for displays of obeisance, and even less for your reverence. Get up."**

The Six stumbled back, and then jerked up straight as if dragged by some unseen leash. Most of them nodded just dumbly, afraid to utter the least of words for the fear of offending their powerful new Master. Some swallowed nervously, not at all liking the nonchalance in the tone of their Master's voice.

_Hmph_ … _maybe they are already slaves, but … no point in not being thorough…_

"**The time is nigh for our revenge…"** he whispered softly, letting his eyes drift unseen over the pale faces.

"… _**No. The time is just right for MY revenge to come into fruition … and this time…"**_ he paused once again, letting his voice soften into a murmur. A spiteful murmur that most tried to ignore when they were around to hear it.

The Six in response drifted in - drawn against their conscious will - closer to the soft whisper.

"**This time that bitch of an Abhorsen will not have **_**chance**_** to grab at. No chance at all. Not with this Mist…"** Walking forward a few steps, he smiled sickly to see the others flinch. His nearness affected them powerfully ... good.

He did hate waste … and they would serve him … in one way or another.

_But they at least deserve to know what they are serving, and how they would serve…_

"**You all have felt the Power within that Mist, and the chains of energy linking it to some other place farther North."** It wasn't a question.

At the response of vigorous nods, and noting the longing looks thrown towards the whirlpool of dust blowing still inside the clearing, he paced ever closer. Their twitches of distraction suddenly faded away, as if they were caught guilty. Unnoticed once again, his hand touched Belgaer, feeling the uncommon heat.

_Perfect. It was time._

Resuming his uncaring manner, he strolled even pleasantly forward idly musing as he went along. "**It is … almost as if it is calling us … inviting us to share its warmth and Power. Don't you feel it?"** Flicking a glance at their nervous eyes, he strolled in closer. He could feel the hunger of the Dead, and their impatience.

"**It's an incredible source of Power that seems endless. And even if it does have an end, it matter's not … because before it runs dry, I will have created an army to suit our purpose. I'll be strong enough to spill the life blood of the Bastard Prince, the Abhorsen witch … and … the Clayr. Oh yes, the Clayr will all die … they will be feasted upon the last and with relish … and we shall enjoy hearing their screams of pain, their pleas to end the torment … and all the while their blood shall stain their white robes and glacier forever."**

Another step and he would be close enough to do what he wanted. Not that he needed the closeness, he could have as well done it from far away. But, he wanted to witness the transformation closer. His voice lost some of their idle nature, and took on a gloating timbre.

"**Too long they shadowed us, too long they looked down upon us … and soon all the white robed witches will fall to lie supine at my feet, and … ah … their screams of agony will be a pleasure long denied. It no longer matters if the Clayr can See us or not … with all this Power…"** indicating the swirling mass, he tilted his hooded head towards the clearing, "… **they can but beg for their lives … and be **_**denied**_** that release."**

The Six were anxious to be sure, and all wanted nothing more than to step back from the looming presence of that robed figure, wanting to flee from it. But none could resist the delicious promises he offered - to see the Clayr fall along with the Abhorsen, to chain them in eternal bondage and slavery … to hear and see the future in which they would be Masters of all … with all the Clayr, all of the Blood serving their every command…

It was a dream - a delight that they could now hope upon, a dream that could become reality … and all because of that awful cloaked figure towering over their cringing forms.

They had received their first sniff of that bloodied dream … and like ravening dogs, unmindful of all else, they took the bait.

Took their first step closer to the dark figure.

Under the metallic faceplate, he could feel his skin tingling with the pent up rage of Belgaer and Saraneth, and feel the returning touch of energy - crackling, caressing his skin. But neither did he miss the first step of all the Six.

_Yes … now it was time…_

Dropping his gloating tone he crooned to them, seeking to fan the flames of desire he could see in their eyes. "_**You all want it … the Power to wield absolute dominance, we have all wanted it … now … all that remains … is the question whether you want to serve or not…"**_

He couldn't resist a smirk at that last.

Already caught in the serpent's lair, the Six could not contemplate the fate that their Master had in store for them, so eager to taste the Power they could feel emanating from their Master… So eager were they, that gone were the feelings of nervousness and fear. The promise of Power, the promise to end their torments … and the Dreams of blood and glory seemed only too real.

As one they kneeled down in front of their Master once more, bending their heads and pressing their foreheads to the scorched ground, anticipating the streams of energy and the soothing touch of Free Magic to arise in them again. Empower them with the same strength and might of the dark Master they had chosen to serve.

Instead, an ominous silence responded from the one they were paying tribute. The groans of the Dead and the jarring creaks of bleached bones faded away into the silence. The stifling air now lay thick with a sweaty overcast, pregnant with suspense and dread.

Smiling at their prostrate forms, with deliberate slowness he slid out the unoccupied hand from beneath his cloak, the slight parting revealing an inky darkness broken now and then by sparks of dazzling brilliance.

The motion was a mockery, a corrupted gesture of the benign benediction that might be made by a King, or by a Charter Mage at baptism.

Where there would have been a gentle hand suffused with the soft comforting glow of the Charter, the arm that had slithered out was impossibly thin and did not maintain solidity, but instead wavered and quivered with shadows, mingled with streams of dried blood. The arm ended in something that might have been a hand at one time but now just five cruel claws - sickly green red veins pulsing with unholy life, ruining the dark ebony of the hand.

The claw descended over the heads of the bowed Six, and for a moment it looked like he was about to bestow them with untold Power…

Only too late did the Six realize what their _Master _had in store for them… and what they had offered for his promises…

With a vicious swipe, the claws ripped down to shred through the unprotected necks of the bowed Six – like wheat stalks and reapers.

Bones crunched in its wake of bloody destruction - the snap and crackle of broken spinal columns echoing off into the night. Red black fluids spurted to fly up in crimson fountains, jetting up now and then with the staggering pulses of the shocked Six - dying and gasping out their last breaths upon their severed heads.

Their shrieks of pain and betrayal died on their lips, as the blackened, mangled mess of what had been their throats could no longer produce the wanted sounds. The six bodies slowly tumbled to their sides, black blood spilling out around their cleaved necks like an upturned jug of ale. As if it were sizzling hot, the rivulets of blood smoked up from the burnt ground – _blood that had been far too long boiled by spells, far past their due time in Life._

As the smell of long decayed blood stained the air, the Dead groaned anew, hungering for something forever denied. Whirling winds shrieked back to life as that terrible hand withdrew inside the cloak, a few threads of light escaping from the slit in the rippling material, before they too were swallowed up.

_There … the deed was done. Now only one more thing to be done…_

Looking down, his eyes followed the gouts of dark blood that still pumped out of torn flesh … entranced by it. His nostrils flared to catch the smell of corrupted blood.

_Fools. But then … the best of slaves are the worst of fools. _

_You will have your place by my side … in the only way you ever can…_

In a swift motion he picked out scalding hot Belgaer, even to his white-hot palm. Sliding his fingers farther down the ebony handle, with the same hand he swiftly withdrew Saraneth the Binder – a motion made possible only with the additional digit. Holding the two bells out in front of him, their clappers shivering in anticipation, he swung them - boldly, commanding - infusing the ringing with his will and thought. Two rapid figure-eights, and then coupled the next swing to a sizzling, sparkling half-crescent as his blazing palm added its own might to Belgaer, which shrilled out its scream to echo past the borders of Death.

Saraneth did not ring yet, for the extra digit had elongated and stilled its anxious tongue.

Belgaer's Voice had no trouble grasping the floundering minds of the Six, breaking their will, volition and memory.

Though he wasn't in Death - since he no longer had the need to - he could glimpse the swift eddies of current that swept around six motionless, shadowy figures. Stall much longer … and he would loose them. As strong as he was, his might did not extend beyond the borders of Life. _Yet._

_Their minds are now mine … and all that remains is their purpose, and their service…_

A sudden twist at some hidden elbow or joint inside the dark cloak, the glowing arm swung back a complete crescent and at the same time Saraneth boomed out, its roar swallowing the screech of Belgaer. Forever binding their shadowy souls to the dead shells lying on the ground, sealing their fate and loyalty to their Master … who had with one hand ripped away their lives, and with another gave them the boon of being the newest commanders of his dread army.

_You are my slaves ... but with a purpose that you can never shunt, nor be mislead from!_

_You will answer to me for every victory and kneel in agony at every loss. _

_You are SIX! GO! _

_Stand up my Death Lords, and take command of your Legion! _

_RISE NOW!_

The mental scream ripped throughout the rows and rows of Dead, each raising its moaning voice, joining in the unholy chorus that was deafening in its dirge - but deep with a primal rhythm, rising and falling … falling and rising. Each paid its homage to their newest Leaders, the Six that they would follow.

The listless bodies lying at his feet began to jerk and thrash around, their bodies spewing smoke, accentuated with sudden bursts of tainted black blood. Each rhythmically beating a rapid staccato on the dry ground as their dead bodies ripped apart with a sickening crunch of bones and the wet wrenching of rotten flesh.

_Fascinating…_

Each wet rip, each crackle of aged old bone was music to his ears as he stared at the fruit of his Power, stared at the work of the newly invigorated Bells. Mesmerized by the sight, he looked on as tendrils of writhing force erupted from his flaming hand, the surges appearing as forked lighting to strike each of the six bodies. Each body convulsed in the tremendous Power transferred to its new form. Barely recognizable human forms arched up from the ground, filled to its fullest with that undeniable power.

He felt the ranks of Dead shuffle nearer and closed his fist around the handles of the Bells, and then withdrew back into the safety of the dark robe.

The Dead moaned again and again…

The Six Reawakened and Empowered … stood up, each shrouded in webs of inky darkness, dripping flame from every pore, and blue lightning flickering just underneath that skin of shade - sheathed but angry. Heads that had previously rolled off, had cast themselves back on but lay cowled and wrapped in shadows.

Six pairs of eyes opened, sparks of angry white light stabbing out. Their dead gaze took in their command of the Dead before returning their sight to the Master. Each dropped its gaze and stood waiting for His command.

_Yes … just as you should all be. Awaiting my every command … _

_And the first task…_

He looked past their bowed heads to the clearing that once again blew with the whirlpool of dust, resonating with his own Power.

_Your first task will be to find the source of this mystique wrought Mist … and bring it under your command…_

He sent a tendril of thought into the shimmering haze, piercing through the turbulence and into the lazy currents featured there…

_Yes … this would be their salvation and the hammer for the forging of their own rule. _

_An Unprecedented Rule!_

* * *

She smiled. 

Far, far away from the dark forest of Yanyl and its darker incidents, sitting atop the night draped spire, Lirael smiled … feeling, sensing the mind that sought answers from the mist. Felt the insipid little mind, trying to grasp what it would never comprehend. She had felt his Awakening, had felt him drawing in the fumes of Power she had sent with the making of her First. Felt his grubbing hands twist the delicate fabric of the Forbidden magic, looking for the thread that would lead him to more Power, more fuel to set ablaze the fires burning within him.

But not realizing that doing so … would provide a hook for the halter that had already been slipped on his muzzle.

She could still hear his last thoughts, feel his misplaced confidence at his newfound strength.

_"… this would be their salvation and the hammer for the forging of their own rule. An Unprecedented Rule!"_

Pale lips twitched in a remembrance of a smile, and a flurry of ebony tresses fluttered silkily in the night as she shook her head gently.

Incandescent in the glow of the pale moon, the black curtain settled back over her silken dress. A gentle iridescent glow bathed her body, emanating from the silent silver bystander … outlining soft curves against the black sky. It wasn't a scene of sensuous repose; just the semblance of a pale marble figurine with shiny silver-black hair, watching the night sky with an eerie smile adorning her lips.

_Does the arrogance of the ignorant have any bounds?_

…

_Useless rhetoric…_

_Unprecedented rule indeed. You will remember those words._

_The ring of Truth never ends. The same is true for my Keys._

_For the next is my Third … and it will come to me… just like all the others. _

Tilting her head to one side, she listened for something … searching for something. She held that posture a moment longer before ending the strange motion with a gesture that could perhaps be called a nod.

_It was here…_

She could hear it … the soft tread of slippered feet coming up distant stairwells, coming closer and closer to where she sat alone. The Third Key… was making its way to her, drawn unaware to its Maker. Unknowing what awaited beyond the spiraling staircase it climbed. She could hear the fall of regular breaths and the swish of a night cape along the cold stones leading to the Southern Tower.

_The First was ready, The Second was being prepared … and now the Third was about to join her, unknowing but undoubtedly near …there was no doubt._

_Come closer…_

_Ellimere._

**End of Chapter Two**

* * *

**Newer Notes:**

So, how was it? Questions? Comments? Feel free to ask me. I'll answer all at the start of the next chapter… or try to. Heh! The next chapter is already typed out, just needs a last proof-reading.

Y'know, my favourite chapter that I've written is actually the next one. Lol. I've had TOO much fun with it I think.

Anyway, see you next time!

-Lordfolken

_**Old Notes:**_

_**Wild Blood Rose: **__Ohhhhhhhhh_ _man!!!!! Ok. I have to say something…! Of all the reviews I've EVER received, yours were the most amazing… and sooo flattering! Thank you, thank you, thank you! (Bows to you) Oh wow! The review for the second chapter itself … whooooh! Amazing! Thanks soo much, man! I'll promise you this, keep reading and you'll see a lot more coming up. And ah … the broken Lirael. Yup … the beginning would be confusing, because it just starts off with her very low in spirits (yah …right! Suicidal more like … still …heh), and then there is a gap of time between chpt 1 and chpt 2. So yah! (:D) Well, thanks again for the kind words, and be prepared for an upcoming explosive chapter!_

_**j9482002: **__Heh! You liked the last chapter, huh? Thanks so much for the review! Hang on for more, and just you wait! There's so much coming up. Yeeeeeeeeeek! When I think of how many things I plan to bring on, whoooooo … hopefully I'll be able to do them all! But for reviewers like you, anything at all! Stick around, and I'll be doing my best to keep you happy! Thanks again! Hope you like this chapter - lots and lots of subplots will be revealed here. So enjoy! (Say … what'd you think of this new Lirael?)_

_**Hwena:**_ _OH WOWEEEEE!!!!! I have two reviews from you! YAY! Okie … perhaps I've gained an interest here! Heh! But yah! Thanks for the review! Yup, me too, me too … I love Sabriel! Keep in tune … there'll be much more of her … (psssst … I'll let you in on a secret!) Sabriel will be very, very important to Lirael as this story goes on. In fact, altho' this is a story primarily about Lirael, at times it could even be that it's actually about Lirael and Sabriel. I mean come on … there has to be something between two long lost sisters, each craving the familial love that had been denied them from the beginning. So yeeeeeep! Hang on for more!_

_**Cali**_ _**Vianya: **__Hey, Hey! Soooooo glad to have you on board! Thanks so much for the great words! (really … you had me grinning all the way there… gah! Gotta stop before my head grows any bigger!) Thanks so much! Hmmm … details are always good … but sometimes I have the tendency to get caught up too much in them. Eeeeeeeep! Ah well! Thanks so much for the kind words. Stick around for more. Thanks again!_


	4. Chapter 3: Michi Nunc Contraria

Heya ALLLLL!

Wow! Its been sooooo utterly looong! So sorry guys! I have been meaning to update, but just ssssooooo many things keeep getting in the way! Darn it! … My courses at university keeps on getting more and more involved. Sigh …

Anyway … now that I have finished feeling sorry for my self, I can finally get to thanking all of those who have reviewed this story! Thank you SO MUCH! I love hearing from you guys.

First off!

**Seasnake.756: **Thanks SO much my friend! Your comment provided the final push for me to complete editing this chapter and posting. Lol. I loved your comment! THANK YOU! I promise to bring even more and more horror and drama.

**SecretLife: **Awwwwww...!!! You're making me blush! Lol. Me?! Rival to the great Garth Nix?!! I am flattered beyond belief by just the comparison! Thank you SOO much! I think I went a lil' overboard with details last chapter … but meh. I couldn't help it! (wink)

**Cipher Admin Eevee: **Oh thank you, thank you! Thank you again! Lol… Lirael's tirades 'are' confusing aren't they? Heh … but tirades don't necessarily make much sense. Lol. (that holds for me sometimes) They're confusing purposely so, as there's a lot of important things mixed within I don't want to reveal just yet. Things that will come up later. But I wouldn't want to clarify them now! I promise you two things tho': Everything will become clear in time, and that was the end of Lirael's tirades. Lol. Thanks SOOO much again!

**Marina:** You've reviewed before, but I might have forgotten to mention you. I am so sorry! But thanks so much for your great comments.

OK! Thank you to all my reviewers who never fail to put a smile on my face! You guys rule!

**NOTE: The beginning of this chapter is fairly dark and descriptive. If you think the age rating should be changed, please let me know. Its still … not too bad, but precautions are best.**

Enjoy the chapter, and do let me know what you think!

-Lordfolken

**Lirael's Last Peal – Act I**

'**CARMINA'S KEY LOCKET'**

* * *

"_**Though this be madness, yet there is method in't."**_

_-William Shakespeare Polonius, Hamlet_

**Chapter 3: Michi Nunc Contraria**

She whimpered – a sniffle enveloped forever by the silence of an empty stall.

A keening really … like that of an unfortunate abandoned kitten … lost and forlorn in its cast aside paper box - resigned to its fate.

_I am alone … all alone!_

Unheeded, unheard by those she prayed for… yet, she was dreadfully afraid of being heard at the same time.

Because there were things other than whom she prayed to. Things … that would come after her!

_I don't want to be heard!_

_Don't listen! Oh please, oh please, oh please! Please! Go away… go right past the door … don't stop…_

_Please?!_

…

A flicker amongst darkened shadows shot past her straining vigil, making her eyes hurt as she tried to track the source …

…

_N-no ... no … _

_M-m-mama? … n-no. no…_

She couldn't hold back the dry lipped moan, staring frozen with fear at the hint of black within the greys, drifting across the rotten floorboards – the eerie movements of nothings and somethings that shifted the night cast gloom.

It wasn't the lack of light that made the scene too horrible a nightmare.

No.

It was the thousand unknowns that crept just outside her refuge – if it could be called that – muffled noises that spoke of dread, vague smells that dried her tears in fear.

_**Creaaak-k-k-k….**_

Sweat stained black hair lashed against the dry wall of the stall. A small head jerked, seeking the source of that noise.

Strange, elongated shadows bobbed with sudden jerking motions – stretching thinly out from beneath a crack of light, seeping out underneath the door jamb.

_**Creaa-aaak… Creaaaa….**_

Her eyes, huge and glossy black against a pale, pale face, stared with transfixed horror as the shadows lengthened into remotely resembling human shapes, but grotesquely twisted…

Shadows that moved in response to age old complaints from the wooden flooring - covering a rarely used stable. A few oil lanterns had been hung outside its meager entrance by the town's inhabitants. The dying embers casting muted yellow braches across the floor, peeping past the cracks in walls and doors.

The girl shivered - the first of many more to come – a visible quiver that ran from her head to her small bare toes.

Long silky hair, glistening black from perspiring fear curled around a delicately oval face. Smaller black strands framing eyes too recently stolen of innocence, too full of horror when childish play and mirth should have been dancing in them.

Eyes that had seen and experienced what no adult should have the misfortune to suffer, let alone a child - barely older than eleven years of age.

The eyes knew.

Those haunted eyes knew what was to come, even if the young mind could not accept the inevitable …

_**CRACK… Creeeaaa… A-K-K-K….**_

She shivered, small teeth chattering in an inborn fever.

Fear had numbed every muscle, erased any thought of escape, or retaliation.

She was left alone in a shambling horse shed that offered less protection than an unspelled blade. And whatever was outside … was getting closer…

_No… please, please, please go away! No one is here! Go! GO! Away … oh please!_

…

It was futile.

The stink hit her first, bringing forth images that she could forget, but the agony of them throbbed through her little body. That dreaded 'unknown' had become flashing images of pain and a terrible loneliness.

_M-mama … I-I … don't …want – want … t-to…be …e-eate-… _

Fat tears finally leaked past those vividly staring eyes, streaking the chalk white pallor. Glittering droplets ran down from a pointed chin to splash against small knees hugged in close. White legs marred with ugly purple bruises and fresh yellow wounds quivered closer to the comfort of the diminutive body. Which had not much more to offer - covered only in a white smock that draped up to the knees.

But the chill of the night had been long forgotten, skin and flesh numbed past any sensation from the elements.

Her body thumped against the wall as crooked shadows crept ever closer, taking on odd humanoid shapes, eerily silent and puppet like in their movements. Joints of old bones creaked and jerked like no human could ever possibly emulate. The rotten smell of the dead and dying assaulted the tiny shed, its only living occupant cowering in one dark corner. The smell so horrible that no matter how hard she pinched her nostrils, it still smashed past her efforts, making her gag repeatedly - a sharp ugly stench of spoiled milk mingled with the odour of decayed meat.

The smell was her control threshold. There was no controlling of movements now.

Tremors wracking her body became wilder. Unable to shield her eyes from the terror on legs, she watched them shamble forward - their groaning, stinking, horrible pace, deliberate upon their dreadful course … _her_.

Blood drained lips opened painfully to a soundless whimper, eyes held captive by the impossible horror in front … hulking relentlessly towards her. Unconsciously, she pressed back harder into her corner, trying to hide … knowing that such was impossible. Desperate arms clasped around her legs and body, seeking a comfort which was never to be offered again.

_She had seen … she had watched … watched what they did. What they did to the helpless … Took the body, tore into it while the person still screamed mindlessly. Screaming, screaming … shrieking on and on. Kept on reaching, tearing, tearing…_

Her eyes reflected the faintly luminous bodies – flickering with eerie marsh lights.

There was something odd happening - as odd it could be, given the circumstances - but she was too far gone in her paralysis.

Many had come to a stop near her…but she saw none of them… her mind still lost in the horror of memories too powerful, too hurtful…

_Those bloodied claws! Relentless …relentlessly clawing at the screaming, bloody, pulpy mass of flesh - prey, fresh flesh! Eating, eating. Reaching down for more … more… more. _

_Mama … oh mama …MAMA!_

_Mama, take me away from here! Mama! They are horrible … horrible … horrible!_

_HORRIBLE!_

But … oh, so much worse were the other human men … bristling in their demonic armor, long knives gleaming in their hands as they took everything in their reach. They took everything! _Trudy…!_ Sweet Trudy … who they cut aside like a fish and into fresh feed for the shadow monsters. They took her little golden box of earrings, that daddy had given her just yesterday. Took the silver in their family drawer, destroyed her bed and the furniture and…

_And … and …oh – n-no … n-no! NO! NO! M-MAMA …! MAMA! _

_THEY TOOK HER!_

_Uuhuunh … and they t-took mama… Took her till she screamed, and screamed and screamed … m-mama! And … they laughed, and laughed. They looked just like the ones eating and eating … they slavered over her … laughed while she screamed… m-mother…_

A flash of something caught her eyes – snapping her back from the daze of memories.

Beyond the looming figures, her eyes caught the glint of gold. The stink of death stung her eyes, but that might have been tears which kept running down her cheeks. Even the relentless shivering had stopped.

She had seen that face.

Had seen it leering at her, whilst he jeered at her suffering mother. Had seen that diseased smile widen as he sat astride mother, and sunk that bright blade in her Mama's breast over and … over and over … and over again. As many times as Mama screamed.

She never knew her Mama had that much blood. She never knew that blood could gush out like that.

She remembered her mother screaming, shrieking to end it all.

_To … end it all._

_MOTHER!_

The terror that had gripped her before was nothing compared to the absolute fear holding her now. Terror born of the shadow monsters had receded into the back of her teetering mind. Only the figure with the slimy smile remained. Her black, black eyes stared at that grin, as the jaws framing it bit into the golden box he carried. A small whine began at the core of her heart, which throbbed painfully enough that she could feel it beating against her legs clutched-in close. She dared not blink, could not blink.

She remembered him … what he had done…

And … n-now … he had come ... come for her … even though … she had tried … tried so hard…

Terror rose again in black filthy wings, buffeting her mind, blocking out every thought but that sickening grin… She could not blink away from that lazy sauntering figure with the horrible smile, clutching her precious earring box in those bloodied hands. The box that daddy had given her but yesterday. _Just … yesterday! _

He came near. Near and nearer to her corner!

She shrank deeper into her corner, an unconscious motion.

Fear and blood. _His knife … sinking into her mother … m-mama screaming and screaming, and he grinned … that smile…_

Black eyes hypnotically followed the widely grinning man, peering from the corner.

He came closer.

_N-no … n-no d-don't come any closer…_

_P-Please … don't c-come any closer … n-no_

The smile only grew wider.

"Hello, little one. I've been looking for you. You hold something very precious to me. Your daddy gave it to you … won't you be a good girl and give it to us?"

The grin stretched to a grotesque angle, all the way up past his cheek bones.

* * *

It had been two hours since she had happened upon Lireal.

_Aunt_ Lirael, she amended with a touch of wryness. Easy to forget and even harder to remember. She was so utterly unassuming, and yet at the same time absolutely captivating, mind-numbingly beautiful. She smiled wistfully, turning to look upon her only aunt.

Darker than night yet luminescent in the silver moonlight, long deep tresses draped her shoulders and body, curled exquisitely around shadow softened curves and laid waste to the darkened hollows. Even she had to admit, it was very attractive and definitely distracting. All the more so, as Lireal did not seem to know what she did regularly to the male population at the castle. Her smile grew even wider as she remembered all those stolen glances by the famously dedicated and disciplined palace guard – of course when they thought no one was looking.

Her smile sobered as her eyes slowly regarded the motionless figure in silent contemplation.

She really was beautiful. But cold. Ice cold. Just like a metallic flame - beautiful to gaze at and dangerous to stare at for too long. Even more deadly to touch. The paleness of her skin was almost a physical shock against the darkness of her hair. Lirael was an Abhorsen after all, and even Ellimere knew she had inherited some of her mother's paleness of skin.

But Lirael… she shivered suddenly, not even knowing why. She had to convince herself that it was just a premonition, or that it was just the chill draft. But deep inside she knew … it was much, much more.

She had watched Mother come out of Death. Much too often lately. She had seen how the vicious currents and eddies of Death had always leached away so much of the vitality from Mother's skin. Rendering her face ever paler, whiter.

However, some vigour of life would always return.

A slight smile twitched the corners of her lips again, as she remembered Father lightly teasing Mother, that she changed her 'colours' so often that he might one day not even recognize her anymore. Sabriel's answer was always a slight mocking smile and a variation of the phrase: "Well … you're always there to return the colours to me, no?" Then the two would smile as if the two of them shared a great secret joke.

It really wasn't amusing now that she came to think of it. Every time Mother went into Death, a little more would be stolen from her spirit. The fine edge of her spirit – her will, strength – those remained the same. However, a little more of the essence, a little more of the vitality was always leached away.

But always some returned. Some colour would always return to her features. The paleness of skin would diminish and a warm glow would return.

But not Lirael.

Never Aunt Lireal.

Her face was unchangingly, achingly … pale … as if Death constantly leeched away at her.

That marble like face remained fixed, unchanging. In itself, Lirael's face was a conflict of characteristics. The exquisitely curled lashes, that aquiline nose and the softly curved high cheekbones – everything was perfect – beauty breathtaking. Her eyes sought out the curve of Lirael's jaw. Hauntingly similar to Mother's, but far harsher … once again colder. The beauty of a naked blade, cold flame. And the eyes … she shivered on the spot again, glancing away from the lure of those orbs.

She had stared deep and long into those eyes once. And for all the things she had ever wanted in her life, she never wanted to gaze in them again. Too much loss screamed there, too much pain and grief shone within. And worse yet, was the brittle, frigid malevolence that blazed inside those dark orbs. Not plain anger, nor fury. It was much more subtle, much more powerful and infinitely more dangerous. No one could stare into her eyes for long. Not even Sabriel, whose heartbreaking efforts to melt that ice and marble surrounding Lireal's heart had been all but successful.

It had been two hours since she sat beside her only aunt.

Even though there was a terrible uneasiness flowing within her, she had to admit, it was … almost a peaceful scene, with Lirael set against the dark sky. That is … if one could bring themselves to ignore the tightness in the air, or the sense of intense cold radiating around the still figure – a figurine of ice-crystal shining in the moonlight. A pristine white robe draped Lirael's body, the moonlight casting a silvery sheen over every curve.

Maybe she should just walk away - the utter stillness was beginning to nag at her.

She twitched her gaze impatiently back upon Lirael, once again gazing at that pale, perfect figure. Her hands, so accustomed to worrying something when they were not busy otherwise, clutched at the shoulder lace of her gown. The slight breeze that fluttered was very chilly.

She frowned at Lirael. Was she purposely ignoring her? Her eyes had been closed ever since she reached here, her breathing soft. As if she was in a far away world. As if she was listening to whatever she could hear with her senses, and see what only those haunted eyes may see.

Irritated, but not understanding exactly why, she caught herself looking for Lirael's left arm. And the next moment she shook her head away from Lirael, unable to bear the uncomfortable, itchy feeling - result of that particular thought. Even though the hand was hidden within the folds of white silk, an image from before remained burned into her mind.

The sickening image of a burnt and cauterized stump rose in her mind. From wrist up she remembered the skin to be silky and unflawed, pale. But down from the wrist … she shuddered again. Perfection ended. The hand lay cut off brutally, the skin puckered and shriveled – dead. There was no infection she remembered Sam saying, as he bound the wound the first night after their fight with the dreaded One. And that was the last time Sam had ever gotten near it.

Just as the hand had withdrawn from the world, so had Lirael from them. She rarely ever joined them in dinner or otherwise, and spoke even less. Which when she came to think of it was very strange – she never answered or replied to any questions, and for some reason that seemed perfectly normal at that time; people would just move onto other topics, and Lirael would become a silent shadow at the edges of their conversations. No could forget her presence, oh no, she was far too powerful for that. But that presence was darkly chill and ominous, so much so that no one would come near her, let alone look directly at her.

The aura around her was different today though … the animosity was still there – feral and sharp, but it was as if she merely waited, expectant of something.

Guiltily she turned back to look at her again, trying to find out what Lirael, _Aunt_ Lirael she corrected, was thinking or doing.

And fell right into a black well of frightening chill – Lirael's gaze held her with claws of such strength that she almost gasped out loud. Held captive by the strangest of emotions reflecting off those dark eyes – she could do nothing, not even breathe, but gaze into the riot of emotions festering inside. That ever present haze of anger and the chill animosity raked her to the core of her being, not letting her watering gaze break away. Hypnotic in its intensity – she could feel that hatred in pulsating waves… oh so strong! For what she didn't know ... nor did she care to find out. All she could do was shiver in terror at the overpowering malice in all those emotions.

And just as abruptly she was let go, tears slipping down cheeks and off the edge of her jaw, her chest heaving with the very effort of breathing.

_What … what was that?!_

She didn't know … except that she had no wish to experience that ever again. Ever again! She trembled in that spot, not daring to move for a while, fearing her voice, legs or arms – one these would fail her.

For a few moments, Ellimere – the statuesque and prim Royal Princess of the Kingdom, future Queen – was just a young girl.

Then anger and foolishness swept back, with a healthy feeling of irritation that made her dash those tears away, and resolutely look up at Lirael again.

_But not directly towards those eyes. That was … far too dangerous._

She met again - that completely blank face gazing at her. No coldly burning gleam there. The eyes were shadowed once more. None of the earlier malice or animosity screamed there, but just a calm, composed look.

_So sudden the change! Had she then … imagined that inhuman expression?_

A slight quirk of those finely arched, black eyebrows told her that Lirael was waiting for her to say something.

Awkwardly, since all those formal interaction lessons she had taken seemed to have fled her mind, she blurted the first thing on her mind. "T-the night is strange … very cold. T-too cold at this time of the year. Yes … what with the season's turning and all…" she ended just as awkwardly as she had begun. Lirael didn't seem to mind though, except to just stare at her through those overly long black bangs hanging over her eyes.

A slight twitch of that head set black locks fluttering in an utterly strange gesture of assent. Or dissent. She couldn't quite make it out. Which strangely enough comforted her, enough at least to gather her flying wits and calm her wildly beating heart.

"Do you come up here often?" she asked, wincing immediately afterward. _Great job Ellimere!_ _Why not ask Lireal point blank why she was such a loner!_ No one in their right mind ever came to this rickety old tower, not unless you had the poor job of a hapless guard, who had the misfortune to be placed in an area that had seen far too many deaths and far less life.

Rather surprisingly a softly spoken, husky reply came to her ill-formed query. "It's quiet here. No loud noises, nor any pointless debates. Just quiet."

Ellimere grinned to herself, immediately put at ease at the tone of Lirael's voice. _Finally. _Finally she had gotten Lireal to speak to her. "Well … it certainly is a lot quieter here than the commons room. But … really it is not too bad there during the night … if one can put up with the late night … ah…" she paused, searching for a delicate term … "…consorts and their … ah … adventures." She ended with a slight smirk.

Unfortunately no answering grin came from Lirael. She did not really expect one, but was hoping for a comment at least. Did she even understand what Ellimere was trying to hint at? She supposed not, the hooded eyes were far too drained of mirth.

The thought of that wiped out any remaining hilarity in her as well. That was the way things went around Lirael. Dead quiet. Silence. Hilarity, fun, joy … somehow none of those emotions ever survived for long around her … seemed like the heaviness of loneliness and cold indifference, had set forth a decree that such things were forbidden in her presence.

Finding nothing else to say, she fell silent as well. And sat staring at Lirael as that those black eyes turned back to their silent contemplation of the night sky.

She didn't know how long she sat that way, when a sudden question jolted her out of her reverie.

"Why … do you say that the night is cold?" The pale face did not reveal the slightest of emotions. Just lay still like marble.

Confused and a bit disoriented by the length of pause between their last conversation, Ellimere shook her head. "Why? Why I feel the night is cold?"

Lirael's answering nod was a slow one, almost hesitant.

"_Incredulity knew no bounds with those that were strange." _Ellimere stared, with those words from an old Master ringing in her ears.

But then, with Lirael, lines of disbelief and conviction ran very close. Stuck for words yet again, she watched as black tresses shimmered in the moonlight when Lirael turned back to her contemplation of the sky; a long lock slipped silkily off a bare shoulder and curled around her upper left arm.

_Hypnotic … the way it seems to have a life of its own…_

_Beauty … undeniable …luminous, and yet so distant. Truly … a mesmerizing sight, especially tonight …she almost seems to glow from within… _

Shaking her head to clear it, she looked back at Lirael. "Well … because … because I can feel it. I knew I should have worn something over my dressing gown. Why, do you not feel it?"

How couldn't she?! It was freezing cold here, and the cold draft that wafted over now and then made it colder still.

No answer.

Ellimere shook her head in bewilderment. With only that silk gown, Lirael should have been chilled to the bone by now.

"I feel … I do not feel this cold, which is just another sensation … easily repressed. Just the errant, empty breeze … so bereft of luster or life. It is dry. Too dry." Lirael cocked her head to one side as if listening, sensing for something. "Dry of any trace, or nuance of the Charter … even when we are this close to … _it_."

_There!_

It was unmistakable!

Ellimere stared at Lirael for a long moment with utter astonishment. There was no mistake this time … that last bit. Had she heard the tone correctly?

Still staring at the impassive pale, she felt another cold stab of dread pierce her.

The way Lirael had referred to the Charter … it was unmistakably cold, and unerringly … _dismissive_.

_Dismissive!_

Nervous beyond calm of any sorts, she rocked forward on both heels. "The … the Charter is still around, in these stones, in the courtyard … even in the bay." There was no response from Lirael, just the emotionless stare. "And of course … not to mention … lately the Charter Stones in the aqueducts seem rather muted, so…" She squinted towards Lirael, the flutter in stomach far too unsettling to sit still.

Lirael was speaking again.

"The Charter stones are only a link … a knot … a connection to a wider, much larger chain." White silk rustled as Lireal leaned forward and stretched one pale hand to lightly touch the stones of a broken balustrade in front of her. Age had long since cracked and split apart the white plaster, but the stones beneath lay grim and strong. "Even stones and mere gravel can be all linked. Yet … what you sense, is it the pulse of the Charter? Or…" Lireal broke off there and retreated back into her huddle.

"Or what? I sense the Charter, I do." Ellimere vehemently replied, even though she had an idea as to what Lirael referred to. Why she was being so insistent upon such a claim though, she had no idea. If Sam or Mother had asked her such a question, her answer would have been a simple, flippant reply.

_Denial._

She was in denial of what she had heard in Lirael's tone.

"You are sure that you can sense the Charter here? That you can feel its life pulse here?" Bare alabaster shoulders rose and fell in a slight shrug. "If so … then you are only denying the obvious. There is no flow, no rush of Charter magic here. Just the remnants of old, dry and exhausted spells and enchantments … crumbling long since they were made."

Ellimere turned to gaze at the spot where Lirael had touched. It glowed a dim but sickly white, and then in a light chime that was half a moan, webs of a broken charter spell cascaded down to smash into nothing against the ground. Startled by sudden ringing about them, she spun around to hear thousands of tinkles resonating, as scores of dimly glowing shards - residuum of old charms and wards - crumbled and shattered.

A thousand years of work … now all gone.

_Not possible…_

One touch. Not even. It had taken Lirael one touch to smash spells so old that they had ingrained themselves in the very heart of the stones. Even if they were ancient - even if they had been frail - to break them with so little effort … a cold shiver went crawling up her spine. Not even a touch! And no counter spell, incantation, or even any indication of any spell. Lirael had swept away any remnants of the charter here.

"It is not so tremendous a feat Ellimere." The use of her name for the very first time this night, jolted her out of her horrified trance. Slowly she looked back at Lirael, falling once again into the smoldering depths of those shadowed eyes. Mesmerizing.

If knowledge was to be weighed, if strength was to be compared, then no one could measure to the depths of Lireal's soul. Or what little of it Ellimere could see through those eyes.

"Far too great a feat for _me_, I'm afraid." The corners of her mouth twitched back up again in a nervous smile. There hadn't been any deception, or arrogance in Lirael's remark. She had accomplished something nigh to impossible … and yet, her statement was without pride. Just a statement. Nothing more.

Others may modestly shrug off praise, and many more would try to gain what little boost they could for their egos by deliberate posing and false modesty. Lirael had need for none of those. Never once – not at court nor within family.

Lirael just was. For the time she had known her, which admittedly had not been long, Lirael had just been the same - quiet strength and cold malevolence. Even though the animosity was muted now, that quiet power still flickered within the hidden depths of mysterious eyes.

The strength in them, the chilling harshness, and jagged bite of those emotions were always hidden. It was the same with her powers - always shadowed, so that she seemed a frail one. A pale waif.

_Curtains to hide the blinding light, to block true sight._

Lirael was anything but weak, anything but frail.

The wells of power that burned inside were too hypnotic to tear her gaze away, even though parts of her mind shrieked at her to look away lest she be lost, Ellimere just could not.

"Fear of failure. That is why … such a feat remains unreachable, unattainable for you."

A shock rippled through Ellimere. _No one … has ever said that to me! … And never … never would I have just listened silently! _

_Why am I still sitting so passively?!_

Lirael's voice … so soft and hoarse, managed to contain such strength and authority, that no one, not even Mother could have said what she had, and not been a target of some snippy reply in return.

Ellimere prided in her skills as a Charter mage. She had been an extolled first at her school, and then a favourite among the palace armed mages and the regular Charter priests. Even amongst the Kings Own - the elite company of men and women who were of the highest caliber of soldiers, warriors and Charter Mages – people from whom she had earned such a respect, that she was the only non-soldier besides Father and Mother who they would acknowledge on equal terms. Years it had taken to earn such an honour, and so much more of blood and sweat to keep it so.

_Unreachable…_

Unreachable was not her word! Lirael would know that. No one could look her in the eye and say with conviction that she did not deserve the respect she had.

_So why had Lirael … why does she look so oddly at me?_

Was there something else Lirael had meant? Trapped already by those eyes, she looked inquisitively into them, trying to figure out what she had meant.

No Charter mage she knew could accomplish what Lirael had just done; and the little amount of effort it had cost her was even more shocking.

Was she being mocked? Cruelly tested somehow?

No.

Not Lirael. She did not have the slyness of those detestable courtiers ranging about the castle night and day, who would shower compliments by one side, and heap lies when turned around.

A conflict of characteristics. That was Lirael. Icy malovence, but at the same time ringed with melancholic nobility. If that austere expression on her face, if that cold, smooth face was not evidence of sincerity, then she knew not what else was.

"Unreachable? There are very few who could've attempted what you just accomplished … and more so in less than a gesture! The Charter is less than a whisper here, and I can barely sense its flow here. There _are_ shallows depths in the flow of Charter. Shallow depths that leave many things embedded … and those buried so … like the ones here…" Ellimere paused for a breath. She might have been babbling, but for whatever reason she was, it was the last thing in her mind.

A strange feeling - she did not was herself to be _lessened_ in Lirael's eyes, as vain as it was.

"… they were old of age, but yet strong. Very strong. They had protected the Tower Battlements for ages… and…" She finished in a dying whisper, her eyes widening as the mysterious depths of those darkened eyes called to her again, before abruptly tearing her eyes away.

Her mind reeled with an odd ringing, strident and painful.

She didn't miss the rustle of silk, as Lirael moved, probably turning away from her. All she could see was the grainy surface of the cold granite floor. Terror had blossomed in her stomach again, and her shoulders shook in an effort to hold it all in.

Again and again, she felt those waves after waves, pulses of the cold, biting hatred. Eyes that gleamed with such venom … had burned something deep in her … a fear that would not go away. She had seen it, _felt_ it twice this night. Once before, and horribly again a few seconds earlier.

Even though … those emotions were just odd flashes ... coming and going… hidden and veiled inside those eyes

_But … by the Charter … was it … horrid!_

_That anger, the cold fury writhing in them … it … it could not be something of only twenty years! Could not possibly be of the twenty years of Lirael's life! The hatred was too potent, the bite too sharp!_

_It …it… _

She swallowed hard, unable to form the word.

_It terrified her…_

_It was too __**old**__, seeming eons of bitter hatreds and hurts ... collected and focused._

_What was it that Mother had said once before? Yes… "Inside Lirael, the fervor with which the hurt and anger burns … that horrible extent of it … cannot be matched, and yet … it refuses to burst out - as if a will stronger than anything holds it in check." _

_And if Lirael should give it a free reign? What then?_

_Charter help us if she should lose control of that anger…!_

The spine tingling shiver shook her again. Harder this time. The image of that pale beautiful hand caressing the rough wall burned into her mind...

"It is not in the secrecy of age, nor the casting of fancy, intricate spells. _Those_ do not determine the power, the strength of the magic. More fool are they who place stock and pride on such. But you know this." Lireal's voice was so low that she had to strain to make it out, and could barely see the upturned face. "Your amazement - not acceptance, the fact that you would think that age old magic should be left alone and untouched … that is the reason why such a feat seems undoable for you.

"'_Seek not amazement and awe, but the grace and skill to surpass what you see and accept.' _Is this not what is taught?"

"No! What … you would have me accept that such a deed is possible to even attempt?! When I can guarantee that there are only three mages I know of, who could do what you just did with the same amount of effort?" Silky black tresses lashed her face as she shook her head in a furious exasperation. _Did Lirael not understand what she had just done?!_ Unconscious anger stained her next words.

"The endless lessons that everyone is forced to learn, strongly advises, no… _forbids_ from attempting what is beyond our reach! That to make rash use of Master marks is sheer folly! And you used one here without the thought of what it could have done to you or for the matter - _this_ tower!"

Panting slightly from her lack of breath, she stared at that palely luminescent figure, trying to gauge the reaction her words would have.

And curiosity was not the emotion that provoked that thought.

_Did I … say too much?_

…

_I fear … fear her reaction!_

Try as she might deny it, she could not wish away that blossoming of fear and anxiety in her stomach as she waited. She probably should not have spoken such to her … she was after all, her Aunt. If what she sensed inside Lirael was even a field off mark, then she had no business suggesting Lirael did not know what she had attempted. She had no right to suggest that Lirael might not have the control to cast and break away Master marks that had been laid with the utmost care and concentration by the greatest mages known to the Kingdom.

_But … Lirael … she might have triggered counter traps instead…_

Even though shame tugged at her cheeks and eyes, she refused to give in to that. Partly because she refused to be cowed by anyone, and partly because she was far too afraid of Lirael's reaction. That unknown quality and unpredictability of Lirael … pulled far too much on her conscience to let the former feeling be born to life.

When Lirael did respond, her voice was even huskier and slighter than before, as if it strove past a muffled barrier. It was whispered into the night, a soft caress of breath and her face completely eclipsed now by the shadows.

"The first time … the very first time I had ever called out a Master Mark was when I was nothing more than a lowly librarian's assistant, a novice in the vast net of the Charter. Blundering my way around the secrets cocooned in the tombs, caverns and traps hidden within that library. That first time, I called upon the second of the Trystan Binding Master marks, without knowing what it's demands of magic and power were … without knowing what preparations needed to taken to safeguard against the backlash of such a casting. Foolhardy? Some argue so … however, I think not. I called upon them, because I _needed_ them. I did so without hesitation, without the fear of failure."

Silence ensued.

When incredulity transcends into the realm of disbelief, there's usually an accompanying hush - a stillness that had nothing to do with peace, but everything involving turmoil.

Ellimere stared aghast at her. To have even attempted, let alone succeed at calling forth one of the highest order of Master marks without preparation … it was unheard of! Let alone the fact that Lirael was still sitting intact in front of her!

_Not possible!_ At the age of twelve!

"Ellimere … you could be even more powerful, even stronger and command far more respect if you would but accept. You could become whatever you desired, Ellimere. All that is stopping you … are those dry and age old advice that should be forgotten and revoked. Suggestions from old times, that have in them less truth than the lies untold."

Another breathless silence.

Her heart throbbed painfully in her chest… as her fingers spasmed along the cold gray floor.

This time the silence was not born of incredulity … but something subtler. Something converging on the boundaries of … interest.

_I could become whatever I desired? I could become even stronger? That I no longer would have to bow in shame every time Rachael defeated me in a duel?_

_Could I … even … face, hold …Ka-Lamia? If I can show him how strong I have become, if I show him that I am even stronger than Rachael, then will he, finally … accept me?_

Fingers splayed against the cold floor, curled in to a painful clench. The dull ache spiking hard enough to shake away those thoughts, leaving her in a cold sweat.

Trembling, she brought up her hand to touch her quivering lips. _So close … so utterly close! The first sign of gold and I run for it, not caring if I end up fulfilling a Necromancer's bargain in the process! I cannot believe I was seriously thinking about and considering what Lirael proposed! Unthinkable! Ridiculous!_

The very notion was abhorrent! To throw away the cautions of the old, it was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. Only those with great ability and strength of will, such as Mother and Father, ever attempted to cast spells beyond them … and that ability had come from the grueling task of facing death and worse a countless amount of times. Even then, they drew upon the Charter only minimally. The mages in the palace were even more cautious … and their caution was not without reason. Every time someone tried something out of their ken, the results would be spectacularly horrible.

Maimed bones, charred remains of limbs, destroyed minds from the backlash of the Charter flow, or disintegrated physical forms – simple death of over-exhaustion. She had seen it countless times. _So of course those warnings made sense!_ The caution her teachers had preached was well within reason. True enough that they were very restrictive, allowing only the most trivial spells when fancy struck – such as lighting a candle and such. Oh, that was not to say that she did not get to practice on much more complicated spells … part of her morning was dedicated to that very task after spending the early morning in a rigorous workout of her combat routines with the Kings Own … with _Rachael_.

Her mouth twisted slightly at the corners.

It was all in the scriptures, countless charter texts and annals. The first rule was never to attempt the unknown, never to experiment with the flow of Eternal Charter. That was the first lecture she ever got from the sonorous old Master, who still taught students. It had been repeated by every Master, every teacher she had ever had. So why … why now… did she question that?

_Why did she question the old adage? Is it not proof enough that so many are confined to the Braekalan realm – the dread sanctuary of the mindless – where even Charter magic could not heal those that had attempted the forbidden, the unreachable spells?! And yet … instead of accepting it with every fibre of my soul, I'm questioning it?!_

_What's wrong with me? And why do I even give Lirael's words any thought?! Everything she uttered had layers of meanings, each more subtle than the rest combined!_

Could it be that … she refused to believe that those who had mastered the Paths, the Castings and Implementation of the Charter were not omnipotent?

_True … that it is restrictive! It truly is … We are discouraged from casting even the most modest foot massager Sending. And as these months roll by, the High Council passes further and further limitations._

_But can I accept … accept this?! Can I give up on old rules … be free to attempt that which is beyond me? Can I … do so … to become stronger?! _

_I must …if I am to become stronger. _

_Yet … To accept this … is … to turn my back on everything that has been taught to me. What Mother has taught me! This … isn't right, nor is it fair._

So caught up in her internal anguish, she did not immediately notice that Lirael was speaking again, the soft whisper echoing from a far, far away plane. "Ellimere … do you have … doubts?"

_How couldn't she? _But she remained mute, unable to look back upon those horrible eyes.

"The teachings that you followed, still follow, the ones you trust with full conviction … how can you believe in them without ever asking the reasons why so much is forbidden, so much is frowned upon. Why do you not question it's almost self-ordained restrictive nature?"

_But … it's what I have always followed, have never questioned … just … accepted…_

…accepted…

_**Accepted. Yes, you accepted it.**_

Startled by that sudden intrusion of thought, she looked up at Lirael, momentarily swinging forward on her heels in a precarious balance. Black, black eyes caught her again, drowned her in pools of mystery and promise, veiled by those billowing black tresses.

'_I called upon them, because I needed them. I did so without hesitation, without the fear of failure.'_

The words hung between those terrible eyes of mystery and her own, ringing like bell in her mind. Its call so urgent that it nigh erased any other thought in her mind.

Fear was a potent medicine, and right now it had control of all her limbs. Fear of exactly what she did know, but she had enough of her will left to try and stumble back from that shrouded figure. To try and escape from those horrible eyes and their biting malevolence. That chill animosity left her so weak that she could not even properly stand!

Her every joint seemed to clicking unsteadily like a doll's and there was no easy way to escape the ice in those eyes, which seemed to hold fast her every moment. Still she stumbled up, not even knowing why she was trying to escape so urgently…

_Why am I fleeing? Why?! What she says is true … I have done nothing but accepted all along - that the teachings were the truest ones. I have never questioned them … why should I have? _

_Yet…yet…_

_Should I have?_

_And now… I flee as a hypocrite, and will not accept anything that Lirael would tell me … as a hypocrite would. I am no better than a damned hypocrite! … No better than those court functionaries who would parrot anything fed to them, whether they believed anything or not. Have I then … become them?_

_I …I…cannot… _

Her own long black hair flew in the midnight air as she finally managed to straighten in a lumbering motion. Breathing was too hard then, and she could feel her breath constrict under tightened lungs, shriveling under that piercing gaze. Even though she could not see Lirael's face, couldn't see anything but just the darkened edges of her face. Trembling from crown to toe, she turned around to leave.

_If I stay …if I stay but a moment longer, than I will be committed to this … _

_I cannot …I can't refuse her any longer! I do not want to question! I do not want to know the reasons and the alternatives … it will bring to close everything I have ever known. I cannot … face her, cannot stare her down …she is far too strong for me!_

_I have to…_

_Flee!_

But she made it to only one step.

"Ellimere. If you flee from this truth, if you flee from questioning the very essence of what is being taught to you, what will you strive for? Will you accept lies even knowing that they are falsehoods … all the while pulling yourself deeper and deeper in a well that would see to stunt your true strength and purpose? With what will you strengthen yourself for others … if you turn your back upon this truth?" Silk whispered in a soft movement, fading away into the quite hush of pre-dawn. "Ellimere … do you have the … courage to listen to the truth, accept and acknowledge the simple truth."

_Did she have the strength to do so? _

_She didn't know herself._

Although, that wasn't what she replied. Strangely enough, Lirael's words had her entrapped, though she knew she could have fled, something held her back - that last bit about true strength and purpose. Her heart pounded so hard that she could feel its reverberation in her eardrums. Her left hand rose to clench the flimsy ruffles decorating the bodice of her nightgown, the material crumpling under her trembling pressure. "If … I … if I should a-accept this t-truth…" she stopped, swallowing hard to still the inane stutter in her voice. For a moment nothing seemed to go down, and she dared not look back at Lirael.

"If I should accept this truth, will I understand things better, or will I have more doubts than ever?" But even those questions were not so important to her - mere trivialities compared to what truly ached in her. Her voice was steady again, for which she was glad. But her heart pounded harder than ever as she pressed her clenched fist closer against her breast … feeling the rapid staccato there.

_What she truly desired … what she truly ached for … was … so … so much more…_

"Will accepting the 'Truth' as you say it is … will accepting it make me … stronger, more … powerful?" Deep shadows wreathed her now … and her voice drifted to silence in that last whisper. The insistent staccato of her heart pounded ever harder, as she waited in agony for the answer, every part of her being stretched out to hear the reply … _what she wanted to hear in that reply._

_What else can knowing the truth be good for … why else must the truth be known … but for knowledge. If I can know this Truth, I will know more than the others, then I can finally prove …finally … I can have…_

"No. Truth alone can never give strength."

A red cloud passed in front of her eyes, an unreasonable anger choking back her breath in a sharp exclamation.

_How dare … How DARE she?! How dare she MOCK me?!_

Anger suffused her so entirely, that before she knew what she was doing, she had spun towards Lirael and stalked forward five or six spaces. If her anger was from loss or false hope disillusioned, she did not care.

She did not even care about consequences, but just then that the irrational anger seemed so justified…

And again that same cold whisper stopped her in her tracks; dark, dark eyes claimed her for their own.

She could have screamed then … maybe she did. She would never know.

"You think I mock you…?" The hiss from the shadows was so full of venom that she shuddered from its bite, and the cold rake of those pitiless eyes became a physical pain. Even the short gasps she had for breath were painful beyond belief. Waves after waves of malice ripped through her, not allowing her a single moments reprieve. That unnatural glow in those fathomless eyes … that horrible, pitiless look … she could not glance away from, but stood shivering like a naked child in the midst of a raging storm.

A pitiless, cold ice-storm.

"I mock no one, remember that Ellimere." Another chill whisper sliced through the night. Each word that had ripped through, left her nerves raw and stretched to their limits.

_I can't take this! I can't take this! I cannot…! _

In her baffled pained state, tears ran freely down her cheeks. How she was hurting this much … she did know – but never before had she ever felt so much pain! It felt like Lirael's eyes were crushing her slowly; icy claws that tore into her stomach and head with such cruelty, that it was a wonder she had not keened out a scream of anguish. And that tone … felt like it flayed her alive, so full of acid malevolence it was.

_But … I just asked for strength … I … just wanted to become stronger! _

_Stronger! I … I cannot take this pain! I'm not strong enough!_

Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the torturous crushing force eased away - and she fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, muscles spasming painfully in their over stressed state. Her breaths rattled unsteadily even through the dull ringing in her ears. Her head bowed in fatigue and black hair spilled out in raven flow, their source still trembling in pain.

_What … what was that?! Magic, Charter magic … free…Free magic?! N-n-no. What am I thinking?! Besides … there is no smell or presence of Free Magic. Nor any casting of a Mark! Then … what was that?!_

_How did she…?! Did she … even do anything at all… but stare at me with those eyes?_

Unable to prop herself aright - even temporarily - so unstable her joints felt at that moment, she could do nothing besides raise her face from the cold ground and sneak a furtive look Lirael, too scared to look directly and far too much in pain to even focus.

Once again, the white robed figure had turned to the night, the pale caress of the fading moon casting deep shadows that hid her mask of a face and those eyes in darkness. However, even the shadows could not smother the overwhelming power in Lirael's next words.

"If there is anything to mock, then mock the idea, the thought that merely learning, having more knowledge can attain true strength. No. Knowledge is but a means, a method, a key to open the door of true power. Do not _cheapen_ true power and strength by assuming that it will come from merely sitting down and accepting a few rules. And attempting some paltry of tricks. No … what I offer is inifinitely more…"

Even though she could scarcely move her head, Ellimere hung on every word Lirael uttered, each clipped statement a hypnotic lure to her ears.

"What I offer Ellimere … is the key to a repressed strength … a strength residing within you. A power - once unleashed, it can never be dimmed, never be denied…" those dark eyes flickered in the gloom and the hoarse voice became even quieter. "It is a power that sleeps inside you Ellimere, awaiting its call from a long slumber. The question is … will you accept it. Will you … believe in what I would show you?"

That glorious head tilted to one side, a black silken fall tumbling off a pearl white shoulder.

There was no need for any hesitation now. No need for any more doubts.

"I will believe … and … I do accept. Lirael."

Silence.

Her heartbeats … she could hear them audibly now.

_A power - once unleashed, it can never be dimmed, never be denied…_

"Very well. I will show you all that you ever wanted, all that you wished for."

Two heartbeats of more silence, and then…

"I will show you the true nature, the true glory of a new world."

Silver … liquid silver exploded into the night, even the stars dimmed in acknowledgment to the light that flushed out the inky darkness. And in the midst of that blinding light - Ellimere could barely see as tears poured down her squinted eyes – a being of absolute glory came into focus.

"Ellimere, meet Anarchael - the Herald."

**End of Chapter 3**


	5. Chapter 4: Est Affectus

Hi there!

Ah ... what do I say? Well ... all I can really say that if you are still reading this fan-fiction then you have my undying gratitude. I started to write this story when I first started to read the original Abhorsen trilogy, which was a while ago. (high school in fact). I can't believe how busy I have been since then. First it was university, and now it's work. Its getting increasingly hard to spare some time in order to write. So I apologize if any of you have been waiting. Actually, when I look back at my earlier work, I do shudder somewhat. I can't believe what a hodgepodge of thoughts and ideas it all was! Even my writing was, to put it mildly, somewhat lacking. I wish I could go back and change all of that. It's kind of embarrassing actually ... but I don't think I will. I think it serves as a reminder of past times. Quite a tie down to reality, actually.

To all my readers who have given a review and encouraged me to write more, I cannot thank you enough. It is because of you all that I can hunt and scavenge some time to write something, anything, without any monetary incentive - lol ... as you start taking steps through the adult 'corporate' world, monetary incentive becomes more of an necessary ideal than the dismissive claims of an exuberant teenager, filled with grand dreams. It does feel good to do something - just because I can - without any schedules, guidelines, etc., etc.

I would like, however, to make a special dedication of this chapter, to one fan whose constant encouragement, correspondence has been instrumental in getting my butt into gear and start writing. A very special thanks goes to BookWormTiff. This chapter is dedicated to this amazing person.

I hope you like this new chapter. Please send me your thoughts. I like to hear anything you may have to say.

~lordfolken

* * *

**Lirael's** **Last Peal – Act I**

'**CARMINA'S KEY LOCKET'**

"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you."

_-Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil_

**Chapter 4: Est Affectus**

Steam, thick and roiling rose out of a merrily singing chute which was blackened with soot and tarred oil, a sign of recent and often use. The exhaust vents which were equipped to muffle the chute's rather strident tones, rattled unsteadily atop a brass drum covered with eerily flickering gauges, pressure meters and a thousand other paraphernalia sticking out in every which direction. Some of the pipes and wires were so long entangled that their beginning and their end could no longer be distinguished; each rose to towering heights above the poor shivering drum which looked ready to burst. Where they presumably joined the lost ceilings above … although that too would also be hard to discern; the thoughtful lack of well lit lanterns gave birth to a gloom that had swallowed everything higher than two lengths of man. Of course if the room - or dungeon depending on the mindset of the person and definitely on their present mood - were to be judged, it wasn't a very cheery sight; what with a thousand sets of strange looking instruments that lay scattered around the floor, some driven into the floor, others just lounging about on the absolutely reliable edge of a rumbling stove.

The tools alone would have scared any randomly inquisitive person, who perhaps was more curious than normal, as a garish sign painted on the door outside loudly proclaimed imminent possibilities of bodily harm inflicted on intruding persons. And if the tools did not frighten, then certainly the large stone tables should have, etched with strangely glowing symbols and burning glyphs that flickered now and then out of sight as if with will – which put into image a demented gaoler's or a grand Inquisitor's room of nocturnal joy. But all of this strangeness … especially the taunting sign outside, meant that it provided a perfect place for more than a few to wonder and fantasize what darkness and mystery went on the other side of the door. Some would dream up a masked demonic necromancer working on his damned spells, and all those who had proclaimed their thoughts aloud would shiver happily … never having seen an actual Necromancer and too ignorant of the actual brutality of their many ceremonies. Then too were the many … more cautious of the lot, who'd have a second of respite to think about the actual possibility of a true Necromancer inside the domain of the High King, which brought many a moment of desperate thought and anxiety.

After all, fantasy and reality often mingled here in the City Regnum - Belisaere, and in many cases reality was far harsher than what fantasy could ever dredge up. And so, the inevitable would occur - the crowd would dispel, dark mutterings following the dispersing crowd, speaking of possible darker things than necromancy. That is not to say any of them truly knew what could possibly be darker and evil than necromancy itself.

But the important thing was: they left the door alone. They damned well left the door alone.

A shame really, since the beauty of the doors in interest were nothing short of spectacular, and in reality had more of mystery and whispered 'magic' in it then visible to an untrained eye - untrained in that it was unable to look past crafty illusions of deeply carved, intersecting swirls and edges that were etched impressively into the dark wood. Therein, flowing within the darkness of the wood, a rapid cascade of Charter marks and Cantrips easily distracted the mind that was not used to such subterfuge. For those who had been trained to look past such traps, there existed far greater powers embedded within the mostly decorative charter marks idly wandering up along the door-sides reaching higher than two tall men atop of each other. Powers that would induce the overly insistent minds to other matters, such as the dire possibility of a burning oven back at home, or an object of immense value lost that would be mysteriously be forgotten once the over-curious person had passed by that door.

In other words - it was a gate and a threshold of such potency that none had ever passed it without authorization from the one who had the intelligence, and not to mention the soul of a meddler, to make such an impossibly distracting and visually arresting artifact amidst one of High Castle's busiest corners. Of course … it should also be amended that the devious person in question was in truth not really trying to be meddlesome, but was just ignorant of the attraction and chaos such a thing would surely cause … After all, he was known to be insufferably absent-minded, more forgetful than a lazing mole and certainly just as ignorant about the world outside his hole.

Which were the very thoughts of a dark figure lost in the shadows beyond the closed door, quick brown eyes scanning across the absolute chaos. Dark eyes roamed past the heaps of littered paper, instruments of all kinds and shapes strewn haphazardly all over the ground. He even spied a heap of tennis racquettes in one corner, stacked together in even packs of dozen.

"Ellimere…," the hidden man whispered, a slight knowing smile lifting his lips and dry laughter following. "No doubt about it…"

"ELLIMERE? HERE?"

The man spun around to his left, startled more from a resounding crash echoing across the room, than at the enraged bellow coming from behind what looked like a shaking and tottering car, with its hood transformed into a giant cylinder with pipes reaching out to the aforementioned missing ceiling. A figure seemed to be engrossed in some sort of primitive dance behind the contraption.

"Sam! What are you doing there behind there?" Try as he might, the tall man couldn't repress laughter at the sight. He rushed from the shadows of the doorway to help pull out a slight struggling figure enmeshed in wire netting and bits of plaster from behind the metallic monstrosity.

"Nick! Where's Ellimere? …. Stop laughing, damn it!" A weakly struggling, black ermine clad arm waved urgently at him. "Oi, and help me out of this!"

Laughing aloud, Nick grabbed the proffered arm, wincing slightly at the sight of shorn and ripped expensive silk. With a desperate heave, which was made tenfold harder by stomach rending mirth at the sight of an indignantly struggling Royal Prince, he did manage to pull Sam clear off the debris. And then collapsed to the floor. Having finally been extracted like cork shoved too deep into a bottle, the ruffled Prince glared at his wildly laughing friend sprawled in a messy heap near him.

"Well … at the very least someone is happy! You were supposed to be here two hours ago!"

Nick just roared even harder.

Glaring one last time at his befuddled friend, Sam resignedly turned to picking out bits of plaster stuck to his coat, commenting on the utter absurdity of the situation as it was in his mind. "You realize … this would never have happened if you arrived earlier, and I didn't get bored enough to start working on that infernal materials compressor." Grumbling slightly, he tried half–heartedly to pull out one particularly troublesome piece of wire holding on to a sleeve of his gown, seemingly for dear life and all lovable eternity.

_Charter help me … I am going to have to sit through another of Ellimere's lectures …_He shivered slightly at that particular thought, and gave up entirely upon trying to pry lose the offending piece. Turning around he glanced in annoyance at his primly dressed friend.

Not a native of the Old Kingdom, not even a regular resident of Castle Regnum, Nicholas Sayre - now named as Niccolais Maronis Saire, the middle name and title of the land of Maroni granted to him by the King upon his instigation as a Royal advisor and Reginald Magister to the Abhorsen - looked spiffing amazing in his silver surcoat, pants, and his polished black boots. Whereas before Nick had kept his dark hair almost brazenly short, now it flowed just past his shoulders in a dark silky wave; a source of much delight to the ladies of the court, who increasingly found reasons to sit near him or talk to him, or the braver few - to ambush him in a dark corner, hoping he would return their smothering looks and burning fervors of passion.

Of course, it did not help that Nicholas – or rather Niccolais – Sam amended, glaring harder at his mirth felled friend, was easily the tallest of the 'eligible' men, with the pale aristocratic features acquired from his Rebirth and none of the self-assuming pompousness of regular courtiers and all the fun loving geniality of the court jesters. Oh … and not to mention: Nick was one of the few young court members with their own land and county that was richly prospering under a young overlord, with the power to ask for the King's hearing at anytime, along with a fast rising popularity as a great Charter mage – yes, it was hard not to see why many of the girls longing after his dark gazes were rumored to go to sleep crying when Nick would gently rebuff their attachments. What was even more astounding was the attention he had among the older council members – much older. After all, a counselor of less than thirty years of age in the Kings Counsel, was deemed by most as a cub amongst lions. Too bad for the other members, that Nick turned out to be a prince amongst lions. Sam had overheard their Finance minister and the Turgeon council member deep in discussion about the political prowess of his friend one day, when he had gone for an absurdly late lunch in the castle mess. He was disgustingly tired after the twentieth failed attempt to purify a particular metal that resisted all his attempts to make it Charter ensorcerelled.

Old Raizon, whose stooped figure and mass of white hair hid the vitality and strength in his blue eyes, was a staunch supporter of what he thought was an up and coming youngest Minister yet. Bent over his half finished plate of roast mutton, he muttered to the grim faced ambassador from the far southern Barony of Turgeon.

"That was a clever, clever move in the end my friend, asking for an eighth share from the Melane and Braithe trade route franchise - in return for increased border and river patrol. He knows his geography well and better the state of economy within your Barony, that he does that Saire." Raizon chuckled, eyes twinkling as he glanced at the reaction of his 'guest', and lifted a perfectly cut slice of meat to his mouth.

Sam keeping his head ducked over his own cooling vegetables, made no motion to attract attention. He seldom paid any heed to court politics, but the mention of Saire had somehow managed to sneak past his glum mood and irritation at failed purification methodologies. He peeked at the grim faced Turgeonean, who looked more deadly as a deep frown creased the bushy eyebrows.

"I do wonder how it passes that he knows so very much about the major trade routes, when the King does not even land trade?" There was just a bit of animosity in that tone, clear from his voice and features.

"Not what you may be thinking, he needs no spy in your trade routes. In fact, I'd be surprised if he knew much at all about the trade routes that your merchants and caravans use. More likely, his interest was piqued by the new trade profile you presented to the King. Increased patrol in Salin Path and Ratharian Way in return of higher levies upon entry to the city?" the old man merrily pronounced. "You left him too wide an opening there my friend."

At a harsh noise made by the newcomer, Sam shrunk even lower pretending he was eating with all his might.

"No, I'd say he did not know the trade routes, but knowing that silk and cotton to be your primary trade-off merchandise, he guessed that Salin and Rothari would be the last possible route for your caravans in that particular ware, am I right?" The old man leaned back to look at the disgruntled man, who grudgingly nodded.

"Braithe road connects directly to Kings Way - a cleaner and safer path to Belisaere doesn't exist - and there has been that recent excavation and a strong bridge connecting Braithe to Salin. Guarding Salin would mean horseback soldiers a mere two scores of woodland path away from the bridge…" admitted the disgruntled man, wrapped in triple layers of silk clothing – a fashion statement from the far-off barony. It was very clear that his admission had not come without a blow to his ego.

An openly grinning Raizon, interrupted. "And of course knowing the condition of Salin Way and Rothari at this time of year, a good portion of your silk wares could be ruined from those salt marshes. There is no way to transport the likes of silk fare there. Once you've traded in silk for Turgeon's most desired goods – salts and spices – _those_ would suffer not a whit on your return through Salin."

Another grudging nod.

"And that Saire…," shaking his head in admiration, Old Raizon leaned forward toward the glowering Ambassador. "He looked right through that ruse, he did. He reasoned that Turgeon's silk wares, which have been clamored to be in a premium drive this time of the season, would have to take the cleanest route if your merchants wanted to get to the city in time and still expect to get the first cut prices."

"True enough…" Acknowledgment barely dripped out of the Ambassador's grimace. "However, why push for a tariff past the Melane road? Melane road is even more ill fitted to our particular mercantile, and only used in our winter trades."

"Hmm … even I can't tell all he's thinkin', although … the King certainly agreed readily, no? Which makes one wonder why the Melane roads were even mentioned at all…?" Silvery brows arched up in question, as the Ambassador dropped his gaze down to the goblet of wine cradled in his hands.

"Discussions have already been finalized, what does it matter now?"

"Nothing at all, old friend." Raizon chuckled as forked over the last of the tender meat. "Well, more succinctly - old me. But … watch yourself, Saire is no easy target. Less than a year in court and already he sits in the meetings. Mark me now … that boy will go far."

It was true; Nick had gone far. The following two months into the summer, Nick's predictions came to fruit. Of the merchants traveling to Belisaere from distant baronies and locales, most would lose a valuable portion of their wares to hardships faced on the path. But Turgeon's merchants, having the bonus accessibility to a personalized franchise trade route, protected and aided by the King's own people, had the most profit to make from rich manses along the way and into the City Proper. The eighth portion as levy, turned out to be quite a hefty sum. It also meant that Turgeon's merchants got to transport huge quantities of spices and salts back home without losing much, if any at all – the King had to be magnanimous after all. But silk was a precious commodity in the Royal City. Which may sound strange for the wealthiest city in the Kingdom, but as a hub for commerce, politics and court – silk and cotton defined society.

In short, the King had made a _killing _as they would say it back in Ancellestaire.

Even though a sizable portion of it went into the settlement plans made for the Southerner refugees, enough had remained to lighten the payload on royal treasury in reimbursing the nobles and other dignitaries for their routine services, and the King was spared to ask for more taxes from the businesses in City Commons. So the King looked generous and fair, the city gentry had more new silk to haggle and empty purses over, and the city merchants and folk got away with less taxation and more savings than ever. An almost disgustingly cheerful summer. So how did the summer end?

During that summer's festival, the King had proclaimed his newest, youngest and very likely the most brilliant Counselor – Niccolais Saire – rechristened after his near miraculous survival and return to the Kingdom.

Grunting to his feet, and shaking off what dust he could from his ermine furred night coat - which was not much considering his less than valiant effort – Sam strode over to his still slightly befuddled, over-popular and primly dressed friend, who was just shaking the last vestiges of laughter sprung tears. A slight sparkle above the breast insignia of two owls and the royal crown caught his attention. Embossed in pale silver, shone the diamond cross and silver key of his position: Royal Counselor and Personal Attendant of the Queen Abhorsen.

"You know … it is mostly for show." Still grinning, Nick waved at his chest region not having missed Sam's stare. Nick rarely ever missed much these days.

"Right … that's why Father has you in his conferences three or four times a day, and Mother has you attending the Private Council whenever she can get the first glimpse of you … no matter how much you try to evade her."

Nick shrugged, not bothering to conceal the lazy grin. "Well, the Queen … ah … well the Abhorsen for some reason thinks that the nephew of a big shot politician from Sudbury is a rare commodity."

"The _Queen_ is wrong … how? You are a commodity … don't be too modest." Sam irritated, brushed again at his torn sleeve and shuddered at the thought of his impending doom in the morning. "You were never much for modesty."

"One must keep up the appearances, chum." Nick stood up and then fastidiously brushed off, what looked like to Sam, imaginary dust. Albeit, Sam's perspective often left much to question. "You haven't forgotten Somersby, have you?"

"What do you mean appearances in Somersby? You never paid much attention to anything beyond your nose in some strange research report!"

"Of course, but there you are. At that time, it kept those free-timing blokes who hung around the town bars from me and my work." Nick grinned disarmingly, knowing that it would rile Sam all the more.

Sam on the other hand had resigned himself to yet another of Nick's favourite past times – bringing up painful, and some very humiliating memories. "Right … and that one time, the brute Andy – you remember 'im don't you?" He was happily rewarded with Nick's more than slightly obvious cringe. "Yeah that's right … how could you not? We found ourselves on the wrong side of Principal Harvey's desk…"

"Hiding I believe, weren't we?" Nick's grin grew wider.

"What happened to 'appearances' on that day?"

"I had mine tacked on perfectly, remember? You decided to be a _Prince_, and demanded a little more respect than a brash-mouthed brute would offer you willingly, and proceeded to hex him – of course at that time I wasn't even sure what you were doing. Only that you ended up hitting someone else." Nick couldn't help but grin wider at the memory, even if he couldn't help but cringe further at what had ensued after that. Three purpled eyes – one on each of them, and one on the hapless caretaker Sid who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sam had demonstrated a surprising skill at dodging punches thrown his way; or perhaps it was lady luck who decided she wanted to flirt with a wayward and out-of-place Prince.

Sam was trying mighty hard not to remember the heart-pounding chase that followed from that brief courageous encounter. "Please stop. I don't want to remember Harvey's expression when he entered his office and sat down at his desk …"

"Yes. If I remember Harvey's exact words: 'I believe the school is for students, not rodents?'" Nick shook his head. "Ah, but Principal Harvey had a way with words!"

"Then it's a good thing we don't have to work so hard in keeping up _appearances._" Try as he might, Sam couldn't restrain his disdain at the very notion of 'keeping up' appearances. For Sam, keeping up appearances meant wearing fancy clothing imbued with dozens of infernal ties and buckles, all conspiring to tangle him into a giant knot; a sight that sent many a maid scurrying forward to help the ruffled Prince – while trying their damnedest hard to keep their laughter contained. Never mind his Royal dignity.

"No Sam, I think that tradition falls more upon you." Nick arched one finely shaped eyebrow. "Would it really be so terrible to dress up in those state robes? If you just straightened up a little bit more…"

Sam eloquently managed to shrug, sigh and scowl at the same time. "Spare me, please. I think nagging about social norms for a Prince should only be in the doctrine and practice of Ellimere."

"As you wish, my Prince." Nick bowed with a grace that was half teasing and half mocking. Noting Sam's resulting glower, he grinned. "Well, aside from discussing wardrobe status, and the oh-so-forseable reasons why you were loitering around that metallic contraption and reminiscing about high school, was there something else you wanted to see me about in the middle of the night?"

Oddly enough, Sam shifted his gaze and the mirth hidden behind his glower stilled. Nick noted the sudden change in mood, but decided not to call him on it. Sam rarely tried to dissemble from a topic – that is, with intent.

"Ah … well … yes." The Prince shuffled forward a few paces towards the right side of the room, where enormous shelves lined the high ceiling wall with books crammed all the way to the top. A ladder leaned haphazardly against the hard wood and metal shelving units. "I heard the birds talking yesterday. It seems you might be in the need of a detailed map of the Melane passages and surrounding country? With some haste as well?"

This was intriguing. It was true. Nick was looking exactly for that, although how Sam knew about such a personal inquiry was intriguing in itself. More interesting was that Sam was actually making an effort at subterfuge – an art Sam had never successfully utilized let alone tried to embellish. Which meant ofcourse, Sam would eventually get to what had soured his mirth.

"In this one instance, the 'birds' were correct." Nick watched as Sam slid the rickety ladder towards the middle of the shelving area, leaving behind a trail of dust. His tone cooled as an unwelcome thought sparked. "You've been keeping Master Raizon company of late I see."

"Yes…" Sam grunted slightly as he mounted the ladder which had absurdly steep metallic rungs, well worn down the center. "Met the old bloke yesterday noon in the western courtyards. What _is_ it about counselors and the western courtyard? Absolutely dreary, that space is!"

Trust Sam to employ colloquialism even when referring to one of the oldest and respected counselor of their Kingdom. Nick shook his head, not half as aghast as much as in rue; it was true, he was losing in his ongoing war to correct much of Sam's regular forgetfulness. Maybe it had to with his 'Prince-liness', Nick often mused. Although, it was more likely Sam just very conveniently forgot honorifics when they most suited him. Which was of course - always.

"And pray tell, what did Master Raizon want to discuss in those dreary hallways? As I recall, Master Raizon decided to retire early from the council yesterday, citing particular disinterest in the Melane venture with Turgeon."

"Oh come of it, Nick! Don't you start your lecture again on how Old Raizon should be minding his own business and I should mind mine own." Sam poked his fingers through the leather bindings of maps and books, stuffed two times more than the shelves would allow. Which made it damned hard to find what he was looking for. He glanced down his slightly irate friend. "You should realize the old codger really cares about you …"

"Yes, and that 'old-codger' as you refer to him, had promised on his honour that this time he would not meddle." Nick seldom interrupted others, and it was with an effort he let his strained words drop.

"True, he said as much. Which is why…" Sam grunted again as he worked out the volume he thought was what he was looking for - the regional map of Melane County. The map was ensorcerelled and quite precious; moreover it was acquired some many months earlier at a very personal cost – something even Sam couldn't quite forget. Well, he amended, the cost was not something that was truly unpleasant – and in many lights, and some times not that many, it was even quite pleasant, "…which is why, he asked me to meddle."

Nick grimaced and then abruptly let go of his irritation, choosing instead to brush back a dark lock of hair that dangled past his face. His hair was too long he mused, but that too had a reason; almost everything he did nowadays had a reason and a purpose. The problem was neither reason nor purpose – with him it was always the 'means' that provided the headaches. While he appreciated Master Raizon's aid more than he could possibly ever tell the jolly old man, in his calculations the addition of extraneous 'aid' almost always heralded disaster when combined with his 'means'. His 'means' to tackle a problem bordered always on the thinnest edge of knife blade: a balance between insanity and stroke of genius. Which meant that his plans did not allow much meddling. And Sam's meddling would be a sure kick to disaster's jester.

"He said to meddle did he?" Nick began cautiously, "And exactly how are you supposed to meddle?"

"Oh … that, it's quite simple really. Here catch." Having finally pried it loose, Sam tossed the leather bound book down at Nick. While he didn't miss Nick's disapproving glance, Sam wasn't fazed the tiniest bit. Nick hated cavalier treatment of books, but according to Sam's extraordinary powers of observation, Nick hated cavalier treatment of even a tea napkin. He grabbed the shelf edge's pulling himself and the ladder forward a few more paces. He was sure there was an accompanying almanac somewhere…

"I'll be traveling with you. To Melane. Tomorrow."

"I see… Did dear Old Raizon deem to enlighten you about a reason of some importance whence I requested the King to lend me the aid of two-score Knights Royal?" Nick peered curiously at the pinkish ribbon tying the booklet shut. It was silk he noted, and of good quality too; which begged the question what something like this was doing in Sam's library. For a moment Nick considered probing his friend's memory with just a bit of teasing, after all the silk was embroidered with faded hints of hearts and roses – not really Sam's type of décor; that is when he was of mind for beauty over functional. However, the moment of fancy passed and a more immediate concern took its place.

While Braithe road always seemed to be in a perpetual state of expansion, regular updates on land markings, bearings and distances were sent to the Royal Cartographers and the Librarians without delay or fail. This allowed the mercantile industries to plan their prospective vending routes according to standardized travel costs, maximize profits and of course – entirely bypass the possibility of an ambush by rogue bands of bandits, cut-throats and worse. To Nick however, the human scum were almost a blessing compared to what else could have been lurking in those woods but a year ago. Only by the grace of the Abhorsen Queen's endless and almost legendary efforts did the land surrounding Braithe road retain its relatively safe status.

Melane Passage-ways however, were an entirely different matter, and the Principality of Melane even worse. Darker things than depraved humans still lurked amongst the densely forested areas surrounding the shoddy road - if it even could be called a road. Deepest game trails in the forests surrounding the High Castle were reputedly in better shape. Melane road was studiously avoided by even the bravest, who had very colloquially termed it the 'Stinkin' Rotten Roads of Melane'. Myths almost always surrounded the forests of the Kingdom, but Nick supposed that this was inevitable after ages of Necromancy and Free Magic had terrorized the country. Even though nearly a year had passed since the Destroyer's binding, many of the oldest - therefore more dangerous and doubly devious - free magic creatures and their ilk still roamed the deepest and darkest shadows of the world, awakened by the Ninth's enormous presence. As much as the Destroyers Binding seemed to have driven them from open human populations, there were still the occasional disturbing rumour and even rarer reports from the rural regions of the Kingdom. Such reports were thankfully seldom. That was another testament of the Queen Abhorsen's endless excursions into the many terrifying remote areas of their Kingdom, and her lone war against the creatures of the deep. She had succeeded in driving them away from the human settlements, chasing them far, far away from the many more secluded ones.

However, the Queen was mortal. Even _if_ her legend, and her people strove to make her into something else. A 'something' that Nick, as the Abhorsen's Aide, found disconcerting. A bad sign, to be thinking about the duties of the Abhorsen here.

He looked up at the slightly disgruntled figure atop the ladder; clearly Sam was having yet another one of his forgetful episodes. Granted the room's chaotic nature, Nick didn't begrudge Sam his moments of confusion about the whereabouts of possessions.

"Sam, please do tell me you know why we travel two score strong, and two times as fast?"

"Why certainly, my troubled friend! The old codger did in fact tell me about your request, whereupon I took it upon myself to confirm my officious presence amongst your grand entourage, and even grander venture! And before you ask, yes, I asked father. No doubt most of your entourage will be trying their very best to hide their disdain by being what they look best – ostentatiously officious." Sam grinned down at an exasperated Nick. "Did I detect a faint note of suspicion in your voice?"

"Sam, the last time you tried to be officious and asked a Kingly favour…"

"Oh posh! I'm not always buried my books! I do know quite a bit of politics, all theory of course, but that is of no matter." Sam, having finally spied the illusive green-black leather bound booklet he was looking for, pulled himself even more precariously across the ladder and into the shelf edge. Curiously, he found it nearly hidden, sandwiched between two massive encyclopedias – almost as if it was intentional. If he had hidden it, Sam could not remember now, why he ever would. Prying it free, he stared at the illusive tome.

For some odd reason, he could not for the life of him fathom why, his mind threw up the image of the Book of the Dead. They were nothing similar he knew, shuddering as the thought of the cool dampness of the dreaded book, slid down his spine like ice cold fingers. He stared at the dusty tome in his hand until the dark images faded. Then shrugged, the matter forgotten. The Book of the Dead would never stop haunting him that much he knew for certain.

Still … there was something. Something about this booklet, something … something… Something he had forgotten. All of a sudden, he felt a strange reluctance to part with it. Which was so very unlike him, that he forced his fingers to unfurl from their death grip around the bound volume. He didn't like holding into things forever or with any great attachment.

"… Here, this should contain all the landmarks and elevation". Sam tossed this one down at Nick as well, and was happily rewarded by another irritated look from his friend. It was good to know he could still get to Nick, after all that happened. The thought of that almost got his mind off the strange unease that had come over him since he'd spied the almanac. Almost.

Sam shimmied down the ladder and shoved the rickety ladder across the shelving units, shrugging at Nick's pointed glare when the most infernal shrieking noise resulted from rusted unused rails scraping against each other. Well, noise wasn't a problem here after all. He'd made sure nobody outside could possibly hear anything that was occurring inside. Instead he strode over to Nick and this time gave his own pointed and famous 'Sam' look, one that was supposed to say: 'I am the Prince, and I'm going to do whatever I want to do'.

Unfortunately, Nick, like so many other important people had somehow gained immunity to that particular look. It was something of a surprise to him that his 'look' had gotten more and more ineffective ever since he was ten… as far as he could recall it had worked so well when he was a kid.

"You can stop that Sam, ain't going to work on me." Nick sighed, and tucked both volumes inside his jacket. "Look, I know you've always been interested in some of the spell works and runes laid into the ancient paths surrounding Melane, but this isn't the time. Seriously, this time …" Nick trailed off, hesitating slightly.

"This time, you're going to find and escort the last branch of Southerners to Maroni." Sam finished for him, watching his friend's face closely. Because now that the topic had come up, even so late at night, his friend needed to hear some things long left unsaid.

"Yes, and you know how they react in the presence of anything 'magical'"

Sam did know. While it made no sense to him, it was one of the main reasons he hadn't gone for more than a cursory visit to his best friend's principality. Which made him angrier than he cared to admit. He wanted to see how his best friend governed his own people. He wanted to see his best friend's lands, castle, his estate, his retinue and life style. But he could not.

"Hostility. Towards anyone caught using it. Except you." He replied, flatly.

Nick winced. "Yes, I suppose hostility is one way of putting it … and before you even say it, I'm doing all I can to reduce their …ah … more aggressive sensitivities."

"'Aggressive sensitivities'? Nick, last time Allene went to heal a child who'd fallen off a wagon because his quarrelling uncles couldn't be more responsible, she was attacked with a pitchfork! That's not aggressive sensitivity, that's pugnacious violence!" The skin between Nick's brows crinkled slightly. Good, Sam thought. It was high time Nick realized that in spite of all his graces and smarts, he was blind to some issues that he couldn't afford to be.

"Yes, and I intervened and did discipline him, as you will recall. It was fortunate Allene was not seriously injured, but circumstances with that group …"

"Fortunate?" Sam exploded, in disbelief. "Nick, she was attacked with a three pronged farming tool!" He knew he was shouting, but as he'd admitted earlier, he damn didn't care now. "Three gashes across her face! Her face! Or doesn't the most fortunate bachelor in the Kingdom not care about a maiden's face?" That last bit wasn't fair, he knew. He saw Nick's fist clench and stared straight back at the decidedly unfriendly glare directed towards him, but again he knew it was past time for some things.

Nick gritted his teeth. "I said 'not seriously'. I didn't say she was not injured. If you'll let me finish… the circumstances that group had found themselves in was distressing to say the least, nor were their moods charitable after weeks of isolation. They were amongst the last ones who had tried to flee, and was simply caught between Necromancy and our own mages."

Sam took a small step closer to Nick, his own anger starting to boil. It was getting harder and harder to remember that Nick had his own demons. But demons or not, he wasn't feeling very keen on sympathy right now.

"What did you do for Allene at that time?" Sam asked quietly. Try as he might though, he couldn't keep the contempt out of his tone. Nick turned paler, a sure sign as any that his mood had just turned dangerous. And it seemed to Sam, as it did every time someone spoke something about the Southerners.

"What are you trying to say, Sam?" Nick's voice was cold, cold.

It didn't even faze Sam. He knew Nick. He knew him better than he perhaps even knew himself. They'd been best buddies back in Ancellestiere, and while he would be the first to admit he didn't completely comprehend the present Nicolais, he knew the older Nick. And that day, when Nick had come between a bewildered girl bleeding from three ugly wounds across her face just underneath her left eye and her red faced assailant, he'd thought for a moment that he didn't know Nick at all.

"I asked you, what did you do for Allene as she lay on the ground stunned and bleeding?" His tone was just as cold as Nick's.

"I saved the girl from getting hurt any further. While you stood there pole-axed, _I_ calmed Darren and his friends." This time it was Nick who took a few aggressive steps towards Sam. "_I_ made sure that they all went back into their wagons, so that the girl would be spared any further injury to her person. She was a Healer, and she could cure her wounds as bad as they were! _They_ couldn't if she'd decided to retaliate. You saw them! They would die first than let any mage touch them with power!"

"Retaliate? _Allene_?" It wasn't disgust at Nick's words that made his voice hoarse, or his lip curl. It was a strange sort of pain.

The concept of retaliation to Allene was more foreign in nature than Necromancy was to a Charter mage. One of the two men who'd once proclaimed that fact was scowling at him, as if he couldn't understand why Sam had chosen to pick out those words, those particular words, from his wonderfully orated explanation.

Sam stared at this suddenly unknown stranger with pinched nostrils and whitened knuckles starting to step closer with belligerence. An unknown, self deceiving belligerence. " 'That Girl'? _Allene_ is just that girl now?" A deep satisfaction took hold of him, as he saw Nick falter suddenly. Or maybe it was relief. He couldn't be sure, so shocked he was from Nick's words. "_Allene_ was her name … or do you not remember you used to whisper that out of all the girls flocking around you, you could never forget her name. Sure, fine. That was a long time ago for Councilor Nicholais, and his stately routines. Then let me ask you this … who amongst all the people in Belisaere welcomed you first to the Kingdom?"

Sam stalked forward not hesitating in the slightest this time, his hands twitching as if he would like to do something imminently; something that involved slapping clear Nick's suddenly stricken face. "Who made you welcome in a court that whispered nothing but lies and hate towards the foreigner?"

As ironic as it may seem now, Nick wasn't always popular. Not until Allene had come into Nick's life.

Memory struck Sam, even as rage threatened to choke him. Which was actually quite strange, his more logical part noted detachedly. He never got angry … and even rarely at Nick. Oh, this was a long time in coming for certain, but he didn't think he'd be this angry.

"She was there every single time to bring us food when we'd stayed up late poring over the books of Charter, every time we went riding. How many times did we take her with us?" He could see a black remorse shrouding his friends face as if he were awakening from a drunken stupor, and just realized what he'd said over the past few minutes. Sam wouldn't let simple remorse deter him though. Where he was going with Nick right now, charity was not in his schedule.

Because _Allene_ was special. It wasn't her gift as one of the greatest healers, it wasn't her dedication to the court orderlies, or the district developers, or the medical staff… it wasn't even her status as younger daughter to one of the court's most influential nobility. It was her personality, a sound goodness of heart and being that was nigh impossible to resist and even harder to not try and protect. Because it was so damned precious. Her purity, and yes, Sam would be the first to admit it, her naiveté, was something that those who befriended her came to cherish.

And that day, her bleeding, bewildered on the ground, Nick acted the diplomatic intermediary and forgot about protection or justice. He'd left her, turned his back, and it wasn't until much later that night he'd even come to see Allene. After he'd attended to the tender sensibilities of the Southerner who had injured Allene. Politics had a place and time; but politics went out the window when someone of their own had been attacked with undue violence or restraint. When the assailant got off with nothing more than a few placating words.

Sam had never been the type to spill blood, but something stronger than he'd ever realized existing within him, had stopped him from blowing off the bastard's hands. He didn't care a whit about what the idiot had borne.

"Yes, Nick. _That girl_. Since you seem to have trouble remembering … why don't I refresh your memory? _You_ left her on the ground bleeding, and took your precious refugees to their precious camps and sung to them about precious civility and tolerance."

He could finally to see it; Nick's controlled façade begin to crack, the guilt sweeping in past the seawall built to hold back the waves of emotion long past overdue. But that was no penance for him, Sam decided. Guilt should have come a long time ago. The Nick he knew, would have felt more than guilt for what happened that day.

He watched coldly as Nick struggled to form words. Struggled, then failed and then tried again.

"I had to… Sam. I had to … take them away from her. Before they could do any more harm… _I_ had to." Nick's voice had sunk to a ghostly whisper. Gone was the proud line of his jaw and the arrogance of a straight spine – so domineering in the court room. There was nothing but vulnerability in Nick's posture now. Sam found no satisfaction, but neither did he feel any guilt. In fact, he could feel his own control, what sample little he had left, start to slip.

He closed the last bit of distance and grabbed Nick by the collar, seething. The fool _still_ did not see beyond his nose; still attempted at delusions.

"_You_ didn't stop them from hurting Allene any further, Nick. You _indulged_ them_."_ As cruel as it was, he added the dagger thrust of his words with as much contempt he could. "Where were your vaunted Oaths? Your Justice?"

"You left Allene sitting on the dirt, after you swore to protect her on the journey. Nick the Courteous did. You deserted her, for your own sake." He glared harder at his best friend, and made his tone steel cold and hard. He was good at working with steel. "Next time … if I should fall from an attack by your precious Southerners, what are you going to do? Calm them?"

And that was all he really needed to say. Everything went out of Nick at those words, and like a puppet with cut strings he fell to the floor. Sam let go of his collar, and stared at the more familiar face he recalled from earlier days. A deep haunted look filled Nick's eyes, and a terrible weariness settled upon his features, making them look suddenly gaunt as if from great hunger.

It wasn't what he'd wanted. This wasn't how he'd wanted to get through to Nick. Yet, this was the only way he would listen.

He crouched in front of Nick, trying his hardest not to think about how calm and mirth struck his friend was moments ago. What he had become in a moments notice when his Southerners were mentioned. And what he was now. He couldn't let it distract him, because he had a lot more to say.

"Why Nick, why?" Sam hadn't wanted any weakness to creep into his voice, but the pain still leaked through despite his best efforts. "If the King's Own were present, that man would be judged within the full extent of the law. However, as that man was not yet a citizen, the sentence would have been less severe. Yet, you simply shirked that responsibility and _chose_ to indulge him based on his station and circumstance." He could see Nick begin to shake his head, as if in denial.

Soul sick of this entire conversation and his anger fading, when Sam spoke his voice was clear once again of any harshness. Perhaps it was for the best, because he didn't know if anger would get any further through to his dumb struck friend. "Nick, who was it that said the strength of the law started in the hands of the citizens?".

Nick looked up, his gaze faltering as he tried to meet Sam's.

"It was you."

* * *

The child with tangled black hair was slightly bewildered. She didn't quite understand what had transpired, as haunted and mindless with fear as she had been. That was two days ago, a lifetime it seemed to her now. In some part of her mind that had not simply shut off, she could attach the passing miles and time to two days. Two days in which she was taken from her ravaged and burning village. Two days since that man with the grotesque smile had found her in the barn, scared witless. Two days since her family had been slaughtered amidst pain, fire and darker things she couldn't put images to.

It hurt too much when she thought about it, somewhere in the back of her head and deep in her chest. She had not expected to live past that night in the barn, but she had. She had even been treated well since her discovery, and was given a new warm coat, blankets, pillows, food, water, privacy and luxuries such candied meats that she never remembered having in her life at the village. However, remembering was getting harder and harder.

The girl looked down at her hands, small and pale. They clenched something hard and cool. The same part of her mind that could attest to time, knew that it was a key to the golden box that the man with the horrible smile kept in his pocket. The man that had murdered her family.

She opened her fist with some effort and bent her head to look at the innocuous object. It was made of gold and something silvery. The key had intricately branching indentations that teased at her gaze, almost challenging her to determine their beginning or end. Somehow, she knew she liked puzzles. She knew she liked this one. As she leaned forward to see a detail her fingers caressed, strands of black hair swept in front of her eyes, but she didn't push them back. It wasn't necessary and it seemed a waste of effort to lift her arms and brush it back. As so many things lately seemed to require more effort than necessary.

And just then, a sharp pain echoed inside her head. The girl winced and quickly clenched her stinging eyes shut. In the past two days, sometimes even when not thinking about anything in particular she would start to recall an image, but it would always bring back the throbbing hurt. This time, she could see behind her closed eyes a vague image of a woman holding something in her hands, clucking at her from behind and doing something with her hair.

The girl shook her head vigorously, forcing those images to disappear and the pain with it. She didn't want to see anymore of that woman who brought strange feelings of warmth to her. It wasn't like she could remember much anyway. And besides, she thought tiredly, toppling sideways from her upright position to curl into her warm blankets, it wasn't as if she was cold any more. It was warm here in the wagon, even if it rattled and bumped. No ... she just needed to lie down and the discomfort would just fade away.

She clamped her fist around the cool metal, and buried her hand underneath her pillow. She didn't want anyone else to see it. Not that anyone would hesitate to take it from her, but something told her to keep it hidden, keep it out of sight. She twisted her head from the pillow and glanced once outside the rattling window. It was all very confusing to see lands familiar and more unfamiliar pass by. More confusing as she didn't know where they were going... and why they hadn't just killed her, or took her precious key. That man had wanted her key after all.

Not much made sense.

Except ... she thought she had an inkling.

It had to be the Dark Lady. The lady with long, black, black hair, dark as deep night and shinier than a moonlit lake. The first night when she had been taken to her wagon, the Dark lady had come. And she brought with her a cold, cold breeze, that wrapped around her and filling the small area in every crack of wood and folds of clothing. Almost threatening in some manner to burst through solid wood - as if it was an invisible, breaking tide. It was strange; she didn't care much for the cold, but whenever the Dark lady came the cold seemed so much more easier to bear. She didn't even need her blankets.

She hoped the Dark lady would come tonight. She like to watch the Lady appear within her small cell, her form molding smoothly into solidity from dripping shadows off the ceiling, congealing into a sleek shape with mesmerizing eyes and hair. Not much more could she tell about the Dark lady as the rest of her features remained a mystery, and her overwhelming presence anything but. The first night she had thought she was dreaming, but when the Lady with features of shadow and clothing made from the depths of night sat down beside her, she couldn't deny that she was real. Because that man with the smile had burst into her wagon with cruel furious anger on his face, no doubt sensing something was amiss within her gilded prison. However, one look at the Dark lady had withered his expression to servility. He'd mumbled something and slunk away. The Dark lady had said nothing, but just sat beside her on the blankets. A silent immobile figure, with long black tresses that coiled and slithered of their own will.

Eventually, exhausted she had fallen asleep, but not before she had felt a ghostly cool hand on her forehead.

The girl turned away from the window and the blinding light outside. Buried her head deeper into the pillow and listened to the thumping of springs and latches as the wagon bumped along the road.

She dearly wished she could feel that hand on her brow again. It was a shame she thought, that the Lady didn't come in the mornings. But she supposed the Lady couldn't very well drip out of shadows in the noon day sun. A shame, she thought sadly, because she really, really could use that hand upon her brow again right now. It drove away all the hurt and pain. Her head would feel cool ... and inexplicably clean.

At that thought, her lips twisted into a small smile. She reached out with her other hand, fumbling a little bit because it had tangled in her sheets, and dug beneath the blankets to take out her only other treasure in the world. Unlike the key, it was soft to the touch. And warm. On the second night, before she had fallen asleep gazing at the Dark Lady, the Lady had pulled out something from inside the shadows of her chest. There were grey shadows wreathing that hand when she pressed the thing into her own small palm. It had seemed like the object was glowing with great light but was enveloped by the Lady's shadows. When she had looked questioningly at the Lady, the glorious head inclined slightly. The cool hand had once again lifted and settled on her forehead. She'd fallen into a calm sleep then.

Now, she opened her hand slowly and looked at her gift from the Lady of shadows.

It was a small soap stone figurine of a dog.


End file.
